The Invisible Savior
by Belfast Docks
Summary: AU, set 1949-1950 - Actress Marguerite St. Just is signed to play the female lead in a documentary film about the mysterious "Scarlet Pimpernel"; an enigma who rescued innocents from concentration camps during the war. The only trouble is, she can't stand the film's financial backer...the most boring man in Europe, Sir Percy Blakeney.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I wrote this a couple of years ago as a random idea, but the problem is, I'm not certain if I'll ever finish it. For now, what you see is what you get. I just wanted to play around with the idea of a _Scarlet Pimpernel_ AU, but I'm not sure I have enough knowledge of WWII to really do this justice._  
><em>

**Story Note:** _Scarlet Pimpernel _AU, taking place ca. 1949 in Europe. Percy x Marguerite. For Clio, the biggest SP fan.

~BD

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><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

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><p>She just did happen to see him across the large ballroom, though rather unexpectedly. He was laughing that ridiculous laugh of his, waving one large, feminine hand carelessly and nearly sloshing expensive French champagne onto a man next to him. <em>Laughing<em>. That awful laugh that was so boorish and inane – like the scrape of silverware on fine china. _Grating_. God, it had grated her nerves the first time she had heard it, as did _everything else_ about him. She highly doubted there could be anyone else in the world built so attractively, and yet who possessed a personality so akin to dirt.

She'd _no_ idea he would be here tonight either; the revelation that he _was_ here was bothersome and annoying. It made her feel out of place and awkward, and she was _never_ out of place or awkward!

To make matters worse, his gaze suddenly caught hers across the crowd. She quickly glanced away, pretending she hadn't seen him at all, and looked back to the film director she was in conversation with. Hopefully the moron across the room would chalk it up to a hallucination, like he did almost _everything else_.

"It sounds a fascinating movie, monsieur," she prattled – and hating herself for doing so, for she, the greatest actress in France, _never_ prattled! She was only doing so because of that damned idiot; she was determined to ignore Blakeney for the rest of the evening and give him no opportunity to approach her, even if it meant (Lord help her!) _prattling_. "And you say the very man himself has agreed to assist with it?" She was exceedingly glad that her lightly powdered face hid the warmth of embarrassment on her cheeks.

"Under the cover of anonymity, yes," the film director admitted pleasantly. He was too infatuated with her beauty and wit to notice her aggravation and state of annoyance; that was, at the very least, quite helpful. He went on, "I can understand why, of course. The Scarlet Pimpernel, as they call him around the globe, would have far too many enemies even these days, Mademoiselle. It has only been three years, after all."

"Very true," she agreed, swirling her champagne in an attempt to ignore the way her gut clenched at the thought of the recently-ended war with Germany. "There are still many who would kill him if possible. The Nazis were ever efficient." She heard the bitterness in her voice; she wondered if the film director heard it.

Apparently he did, but he shared her sentiments. "They still are, I hear," he responded dryly. "The ones that have escaped capture. But apparently, the mysterious Pimpernel has given his story to a Mr. Hastings regardless of freely roaming enemies, and Mr. Hastings wrote it into script form."

"Hastings...? I have never heard of him." _Probably a pseudonym_, she thought briefly; whoever wrote the movie script of the most daring man of the Second World War's exploits saving Jews from beneath the noses of those horrible Nazis wouldn't want to be discovered and found out, if at all possible.

The film director smiled slightly. "Nor had I. But I met him just the other day, and his writing is genius. I've no idea what he did during the war years, but I believe this film will be the beginning of an illustrious career for the man."

She glanced around once more at the huge gathering of movie stars, directors, producers, and writers – all of them mooching up to each other before the Cannes Film Festival in just another couple of days – hoping she might see this Mr. Hastings somewhere among the brilliantly dazzling diamonds and rubies, cut crystal and lamé gowns.

But no; alas, damn it _all_! The very idiot she'd been so keen to avoid making eye contact with was crossing the very center of the room, bee-lining directly for her! She should have _known_ he would; she could always tell when some man took too much of a liking to her, and Blakeney had from the very start: a year previously when she had met him at a dinner party in London, hosted by a wealthy backer. He was insufferable!

Thinking fast, almost wildly so, she turned back to her conversationalist and said, "I should like to meet Mr. Hastings before signing for the female lead, Monsieur. With you directing, I foresee a huge hit, but I always like to meet everyone involved."

"With _you_ acting in it, it will be a hit, you mean! And of course you shall meet him! I would have it no other way."

"Is the gentleman here this evening?" she asked as politely as possible, desperate to escape into the crowd before Blakeney reached her. Hopefully this Hastings man would be far, far across the room. Preferably near an exit.

"I believe so..." The director glanced about, and to Marguerite's intense displeasure, he said excitedly, "Ah, _Blakeney_!"

Marguerite swore inwardly, cursing her luck. It was truly horrible sometimes, but there was nothing to be done about it at the immediate moment.

The idiot named Blakeney stopped before them, smiling blandly, his long fingers curled about a half-full crystal champagne flute. "Ah, Monsieur...Fonte...bleu, was it? I'm demmed terrible at remembering these French names, never could manage the language myself, you know."

She ground her teeth and bit her tongue as his eyes swept over her, taking in the silver, strapless gown and its dipping cleavage, the way it clung to her hips before flaring slightly at her knees and falling to her ankles and high, silver heels. Unconsciously, she arched her back, trying to put some invisible distance between the two of them, and her eyes took on the cold, hard look she had acquired during the war years.

Monsieur Fontebleu was speaking again, chattering on quite cheerfully. "Marguerite, chéri, Monsieur Blakeney is one of Hastings' closest friends. He has agreed to fund the entire project himself! Is that not generous?"

"Ah, has he?" she mused, keeping her voice as cool as silk. Of course he _would_ do such a thing – if rumor held true, he had a massive fortune. He could do whatever he liked, though she had thought he preferred gambling at the casinos in Monte Carlo and sailing the Caribbean in his private yacht rather than fund documentary films about the atrocities of the recent war. She was definitely leaning towards _not_ signing the lead now, even if it was destined to be a hit. Working with Blakeney for several months on end would be absolutely insupportable.

"Ah yes, Hastings!" Blakeney's smile became rather quaint, almost boyish and shy.

"You've read the script, sir?" Director Fontebleu asked. "It is a masterpiece, I daresay!"

"Read it? Oh, good Lord no," Blakeney laughed softly. "I'm afraid not. Never read that sort of thing. Hastings gave me the general overview when he and I spoke about funding, but that's all!"

She stared at him incredulously. How in heaven could he agree to back a major film project without reading the script? Was money _nothing_ to him? If the project failed, he would be out a couple of million pounds, at the very least!

Director Fontebleu apparently had the same thoughts, for he stammered, "But... Monsieur Blakeney...!"

"Oh, I'm certain it will be an absolute smash!" Blakeney rambled, in that gratingly cheerful voice of his. The very British-ness of his words were rubbing Marguerite's nerves raw. "Hastings did a spot of theatre before the war, mostly vaudeville, I believe. Maybe radio? Eh, not my taste, but to each his own, wot? I hear, however, that you have been asked to play the lead, Mademoiselle St. Just." He smiled at her, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. "An excellent choice. The _only_ choice, as far as _I'm_ concerned."

Icily, she said, "Be that as it may, my schedule is quite full at the moment, and I'm afraid I must read the script before I remotely consider –"

Director Fontebleu cut her off. "Not to worry, Monsieur. She will sign to the script, because I am perfectly aware of the, er, _Scarlet Pimpernel's_ stipulations. They were quite clear..."

"Oh! Yes, I _do_ remember Hastings telling me about that. The enigma that is the elusive, mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel _insisted_ on Mademoiselle St. Just in the lead, was it? I thought it was a bit much, myself! What an odd fellow he must be! Clearly a fan of yours, m'dear, though I can't blame him there! Well, he may have rescued countless Jews during the war, but the rest of us Englishmen can't hope to live up to such a person, I daresay." Blakeney seemed highly amused by this, for some strange reason. "Demmed devil! Still, if his story sells..." He shrugged lightly as he trailed off.

Marguerite was determined that she was not going to fathom the ways of the English tonight, in particular _this_ man's ways. However, she did know that he certainly could not _hope_ to live up to the Scarlet Pimpernel's incredible talent. The mysterious personage had saved hundreds of lives during the war, sometimes sneaking them from directly beneath the noses of those damned Nazis, sometimes from prison camps, sometimes from hiding places in Belgium and France and the Netherlands and even from the Slavic regions, getting them safely to England, Canada, or America. Europe admired and loved that unknown man, for Germany had hated him so, and he became a beacon of hope in a war-torn world. No one knew his identity. Even now, there were still high-ranking Nazi officials on the run, as well as spies and others determined to kill someone who had worked so tirelessly against the now-shattered German nation. That Mr. Hastings, the scriptwriter for the Scarlet Pimpernel's film debut, actually _knew_ the elusive man personally, and enough to get his opinion for the movie, was impressive. It probably put him in a great deal of danger, to be honest – and Marguerite admired Hastings for still going through with the film idea despite that.

"And who shall play the man himself?" The question burst from her lips before she could stop herself. She wouldn't be the first bit surprised it if were Blakeney – it would be absurd enough. The man couldn't possibly have the first bit of acting ability, that much was certain. She _wouldn't_ play opposite of him, regardless of the success of the project.

"An unknown talent, actually," Fontebleu confessed, surprising Marguerite. "I think his name is Sir Andrew Ffoulkes."

Blakeney chortled at this – biting down on what would have been an outright laugh and making it something of an uncouth snort instead, and Marguerite glared at him for being so... _Blakeney_. She didn't know who this Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was, but if Blakeney's opinion of him were so low, hers would likely be quite high. That was the way of things. She was determined to like what he hated, and hate what he liked.

"I should like to meet him as well," she said loftily.

Blakeney's eyes brightened. "That is easily arranged."

He offered her his arm, and Marguerite glared at him for a moment. She was the most recognized actress in France; she could afford to be rude. Unfortunately, she had no idea what Mr. Ffoulkes _or_ Mr. Hastings looked like, which put her at a slight disadvantage.

Blakeney chuckled. "I can stand here all night, Mademoiselle St. Just. Believe me."

Oh, hellfire! Of course she believed him! Didn't she _know_ he could be stubborn? He could do little else in life, but he was _horribly_ persistent. Angrily, she slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow, hoping not to touch any more of him then she could help. To her further irritation, she realized that the fabric of his suit was the best; her hand could discern that much just in what little she felt against her skin.

He also seemed highly amused at her revulsion, and he smiled at Fontebleu. "I shall see you tomorrow, sir? And next week to discuss the particulars of financing?"

"Of course!" Fontebleu looked highly pleased, but Marguerite didn't wonder at that. He had a top-billing actress, a brilliant script on a topic the world hadn't forgotten yet, and a backer with enough money to buy a small country (and probably owned one already and did nothing with it). It didn't matter that Andrew Ffoulkes was an up-and-coming actor; after this, he would be a star. There must be something amazing about him; otherwise Fontebleu – who was a highly respected director – wouldn't have signed him for such an important male lead.

"You seem out of spirits tonight, Mademoiselle," Blakeney said idly, jarring her out of her thoughts. Even the way he said _mademoiselle_ was all _wrong_ – as though he had never learned how to speak French properly. It was infuriating!

"Oui, monsieur," she said curtly, her French flawless because she was, of course, French. But then, her English was also flawless, and she knew a bit of German and Italian as well. She applied herself; Blakeney didn't.

"I fear you dislike your company?"

Her lips twisted; she suddenly felt like a viper. "Whatever gave you _that_ idea, Monsieur Blakeney?"

"Lord, actually." He gave her that small, shy grin. "Lord Blakeney."

Oh, drat. Of course it was Lord! How had she forgotten? She rolled her eyes – she wanted to forget everything about this man. God, how she loathed him.

"Ah, there's Ffoulkes," he said, oblivious to her desire to escape.

A handsome young man, standing near a large potted palm, holding a glass of brandy, well away from the crowds and completely alone, and looking immensely out of place, met their eyes. He seemed relieved to see someone he recognized, and after a quick nod to Blakeney, he took Marguerite's hand politely, placing his lips against her knuckles in a gracious gesture.

"Marguerite St. Just, it is an honor," he said politely.

She liked him already, for he was handsome and polite and a perfect gentleman, and said as much: "The honor is mine. I hear we shall soon be working together on _The Invisible Savior_."

"Ah, yes." He smiled nervously, eyes flickering once to Blakeney. "Monsieur Fontebleu saw a screen test I did recently and approached me about the lead. I fear I will be unable to do it justice, myself."

"Well, no one can be the Scarlet Pimpernel except the man himself," she said cheerfully, forgetting Blakeney was at her side, if only for a moment. "But if Fontebleu liked your work, I am certain it must be incredible. He is known for selecting the best."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle. I am grateful for your support and I look forward to working with you."

"You are not Jewish yourself, are you, Mademoiselle?" Blakeney asked suddenly.

She turned to glare up at him. "No. I am Catholic, Monsieur."

"Ah, yes. That would make more sense."

Andrew Ffoulkes stared at Blakeney, shook his head a fraction, gave the man a pointed look, and turned back to Marguerite. "Have you met Edward yet?" he asked.

"Edward?"

"Forgive me – Edward Hastings."

"Oh! I have not. I am sure I shall like him though. Especially if he knows the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Ffoulkes gave her a thin smile. "I also know the man as well, actually. I can assure you, he is nothing as to what most people think."

"Really? _Dieu_! Everyone seems to know him! How strange! I would have thought he would have guarded his identity more closely than this, what with the war just having ended and so many enemies still unchecked." She turned to glare at Blakeney. "Do you also know this person? The Scarlet Pimpernel, I mean?"

His eyes widened in surprise. "Me? God, no! I spent the war in the northern country, away from the blitz and action."

Of course he had! Why on earth would this man engage in combat? Someone would have shot him, likely – either because he was so stupid, or because he was so _irritating_, or because his laugh would have been like a bloody air raid siren. But then, she had spent a good portion of the war in Switzerland herself, so she couldn't berate him on that point too extensively. Except that he was a man – or should have been – and of age where he could have been an officer in the military. Cowardice then, it seemed. Well, that was certainly plausible. Nothing more than a wealthy coward who used his fortune to escape his duties as a man in time of conflict...

"Mademoiselle St. Just? Shall I introduce you to Hastings?" Ffoulkes gestured before him and offered her his arm.

She gratefully took it, for the mere fact that it wasn't Blakeney's, and said, "Of course!"

Edward Hastings, it transpired, was as gentlemanly and polite as Ffoulkes was, and Marguerite liked him from the very start. Within five seconds, she had forgotten about Blakeney, and within five minutes, she had arranged to meet with Hastings the next morning over a late breakfast at a nearby café to read some of the script, and Andrew also agreed to be present. She was quite elated. Maybe she wouldn't even have to see Blakeney much during the filming, for he was only a financial backer, and he wouldn't be around to give input, surely!

It was only when Suzanne Tourney, one of her dearest friends and a fellow actress, came over thirty minutes later to meet the gentlemen, did Marguerite realize with a strange jolt that Blakeney was still standing there – silent now, praise God, but she unfortunately caught his gaze as Suzanne and Andrew picked up the conversation easily.

For a brief second, the laziness in Blakeney's heavy blue eyes seemed to flicker, like an old reel of film that had been stored too long, and Marguerite felt an odd momentary panic that there was something she had missed about him in all their previous meetings.

But no, it was gone again, and to her immense annoyance, he drawled out unexpectedly, "Shall I escort you to your hotel, Mademoiselle St. Just?"

She wanted to tell him _no_; she wanted to tell him to leave her alone. She turned to Suzanne, in order to ignore Blakeney, but to her surprise her friend was no longer at her side, and neither was Andrew or Edward. The three of them had moved several feet to the right in order to meet another actress, and it seemed that for the first time since the war the famous Marguerite St. Just was completely alone.

She wasn't quite sure what made her agree to Blakeney's awful proposal. An exhaustion she hadn't felt since the defeat of the Axis Powers suddenly crept over her, and the very idea of staying at this glittering soiree, making small talk until four in the morning, was simply too much. Even having _Blakeney_ take her back to her hotel was better than staying here, she thought wearily, almost dejectedly, as she watched Suzanne laugh at something Andrew said. They seemed so young and vibrant, while she felt old and tired, and she just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep.

But she would be damned if she let Blakeney see that.

She inhaled through her nose, turned and glared furiously up into Blakeney's face (which would have been handsome, she noted with distaste, were it not for the lazy droop of his eyelids) and she reluctantly nodded. "Oui," she said in a tight voice, "I am rather fatigued, I think. And I do not see anyone else free at the moment to escort me."

He smiled slightly, offered her his arm, and she allowed him to lead her to the grand entry, where she retrieved her mink, and from there, outside into the cool night air of southern France.

He was driving a Royals (which was brought around by the valet in short order), though she supposed that when she thought on it, what else would he drive? He opened the passenger door gracefully and helped her inside, and moments later they were cruising down the road. She avoided looking in his direction, feeling rather than seeing as he smoothly shifted gears and they made their way to the coastal hotel she was staying at for the festival. It suddenly unnerved her that she had given in to him, even this little bit, for it meant that he had won a major battle in their non-existent relationship. She should have just stayed at the party! She should have pretended she wasn't tired or worn out! What on earth had come over her? Marguerite was just starting to become truly furious with herself when she felt the car roll to an easy stop; when she glanced out of the windshield she saw the twinkling lights of the hotel before her.

Angry at herself, she exited the car before he had a chance to get around to the passenger side and help her out, and she swept by him without a word, up the marbled steps and through the lobby to the elevator, where she jammed the button and resettled the mink about her shoulders.

Thirty seconds passed and she exhaled a sigh of relief. He was gone, _finally_. She felt as though she could breathe again.

But then, much to her chagrin, Marguerite heard him clear his throat behind her, and she cursed herself that he had followed her all the way to the elevator. Annoyed, she pressed the button a second time, rather harder than the first time, and she began to tap her foot impatiently.

"Is something wrong, mademoiselle?" he drawled, twisting the word the wrong way, just as he _always_ did.

It was as though it set an electric spark through her; she finally _snapped_.

Whirling around on the balls of her feet to face him, Marguerite bit out angrily, "_Yes_!" And then, realizing that the few people about the lobby had turned to stare at her in surprise, she dropped her voice to a low hiss. "_Stop speaking French, for God's sake_! Mon _Dieu_! But even the way you say a simple word is all _wrong_! Zut alors, it is _mademoiselle_, not mad-e-moe-sell!"

For a brief second, his eyes sparkled with sheer amusement at her tirade. Then he said, "Do forgive your humble servant, _mademoiselle_. I will try to do better, if it so pleases you."

He said it perfectly.

Marguerite stared at him, utterly dumbfounded that he had managed to pull it off. It was some sort of mistake, surely.

A _ding!_ behind her indicated that the elevator had arrived. Before she quite realized what was happening, Percy Blakeney ushered her into it and the elevator boy eyed her curiously; she managed to give him the floor number without snapping at him, at least.

The ride upwards was silent; beside her, Sir Percy Blakeney rocked slightly on his feet. He looked even more massive in an elevator; the poor boy pressing the buttons looked terrified at the giant of a man he was taking upwards (he was probably wondering if the elevator was rated for such weight, truth be told). Blakeney's golden curls nearly brushed the light fixture, and with him reflecting in all of the mirrors, the elevator did in fact feel much too small.

As soon as they reached the top floor and the elevator doors had closed behind them, Percy drawled, "Poor fellow. Seemed a bit pale. I should speak to the manager and request they allow the boy to go home for the rest of the night. Hate for him to have something catching...!"

For a split second, Marguerite almost laughed at his absurdity. Quickly rearranging her face into a frown, she instead replied, "He is hardly ill. He was terrified of _you_. Inside an elevator, you simply look too big to be allowed."

He chuckled – that inane laugh she loathed – and she bristled again and turned for her door.

"Here, allow me," he offered, as she went to insert the key.

She snorted derisively. "Thank you, Monsieur, for escorting me here safely. But I am fairly certain that I am able to enter my rooms on my own. And no, you are not invited. Au revoir." She gave him a curt nod, and glared at him, hoping he would at the very least look abashed.

But unlike so many other men, he did not quail beneath her gaze – she would have been pleased that he didn't, were it because he was brave, but she knew very well that it was only because he was too stupid to know better, and that somehow ruined the effect.

After a long, tense pause, he said lightly, "Well, then. I suppose I'd best take the stairs. I'd hate to… um… Frighten that poor fellow any more, wouldn't I?"

And with a lopsided smile and an old-fashioned bow, he turned gracefully and walked the length of the carpeted hall to the stairwell.

He didn't look back, and Marguerite exhaled in relief as she let herself into her rooms and locked the door behind her. Thank God he was gone at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I had already written half of this chapter before I posted the first chapter. Unfortunately, there is no chapter 3 yet. I have no idea if it will get written or not, and my apologies for the ambiguity!

~BD

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><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

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><p>"You're infatuated."<p>

"No one would ever guess he hasn't seen the first one of her films, what with the way he stares at her whenever they're in the same room!"

"I don't trust her."

"Nor do I."

"She'll figure it out, you know."

"It hasn't been long enough since the end of the war, Blakeney."

"Exactly. What if she reunites with some of her old friends? You know, the ones with _pro-Germanic_ ties?"

"You shouldn't disregard Glynde's information, either. He's not in British Intelligence for nothing."

"And a number of the people she associated with prior to the war haven't been caught yet!"

There was a long pause before the man sitting across from the other two finally spoke, though it was far too lightly for their satisfaction. "Everyone has skeletons in the closet, as it were," he drawled.

"She sent three Jewish families and one French family to Drancy, Blakeney. I'm not certain that's the best woman to play the female lead in this ridiculous movie script you've written. The one you're making _me_ take credit for." There was a pause, then, "I _can't_ go through with this. I won't take credit for your brilliance and I'm not going to –!"

Blakeney laughed at this outburst. "Ah, but you took an oath, Hastings, and you most certainly can't back out of it now! Convenient, eh? Demmed convenient, I'd say. Oaths, that is."

"_Drancy_, Percy," Ffoulkes reminded him darkly. "Four families –!"

"A mistake. I keep trying to tell you that. She didn't know what she was doing. Ask Dewhurst and Dennys. They were at the trial, too. She was tricked by –"

"It _appeared_ she was tricked, damn it! And regardless of whether she _was_ tricked or _not_, _he's_ not been caught yet! Another _convenience_, as it were!"

Percy shrugged. "I'm keeping an eye on that, I assure you. In the meantime, you two are going to have a beautiful brunch guest in approximately fifteen minutes, and I would advise you both to be on your best behavior, regardless of anything else."

"We're not schoolboy prigs, Perce!" Hastings snapped. "We know how to act, damn it all, even if we don't trust her!"

"That's good to know. But I'm still going to demand your word. Both of you." He narrowed his eyes at them.

Hastings and Ffoulkes glanced at each other impatiently and sighed, before they finally nodded reluctantly at their chief.

"I'll be nearby if you _absolutely_ need me. But if at all possible I'd rather her not know I'm around – she despises me." His eyes twinkled in the morning sunlight, as though he found the fact that Marguerite St. Just loathed him to be highly entertaining.

"All the more reason to _move on_," Hastings suggested pointedly.

"All the more reason to _accept the challenge_," Blakeney replied cheerfully, and he rose from the wrought iron chair and stretched his long limbs.

Then, as lazily as he seemed to do everything else, he strolled across the small alley and up ten feet, before taking a seat at a vacant café table beneath a shady lilac tree. Within seconds, a young waiter had approached him and taken his order – and had someone asked the waiter what nationality the tall, blonde man was, the waiter would have instantly replied _French, of course!_

Marguerite walked directly by him without even noticing him, for he blended in so well with the small scattering of people outside this alley café, and she went directly to Hastings' and Ffoulkes' table. Both gentlemen rose and welcomed her: Ffoulkes pulled her seat out while Hastings flagged the waiter.

Ten feet away, Sir Percy Blakeney smiled into his coffee and watched out of the corner of his eyes, hidden behind aviator sunglasses, as she laughed and chatted with the two Englishmen – two members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, even! – without any idea of whom they really were. It was really _quite_ entertaining.

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><p>Four months later, he still found everything quite entertaining, much to his men's annoyance – in particular Ffoulkes, who saw him more than anyone else.<p>

Marguerite had not expected him to appear at any of the filming sessions, for example. He couldn't possibly show up at _all_ of them, for it would look too suspicious, but he came to the filming sporadically and she always looked highly irritated at his presence. He got a kick out of it, out of pressing her buttons, because they were so bloody easy to press. Just when it seemed he had made progress with her – just when he thought she was going to laugh at one of his silly jokes or weird comments – she would rearrange her expression and scowl at him, and they'd be right back at square one. His men thought he was delusional for pursuing a woman who clearly had no interest in him, but it was such a _challenge_, and Percy Blakeney hadn't had a challenge quite so exciting since the end of the war.

And then there was poor Andrew, who was clearly about to go 'round the twist any day now. Playing Marguerite's opposite with Percy hanging about the filming studios was driving him insane. The whole scheme for Andrew to play Percy in the first place had only been concocted because Andrew had made the comment that he wanted to meet the actress Suzanne Tourney, who was one of Marguerite's closest friends, and Percy had decided that if they wrote a movie script about the Pimpernel's exploits and Andrew played the lead, he would be in a better position to meet and woo Suzanne, and also throw Percy right into Marguerite's path. At least the first part had come about even if nothing else had – Suzanne had taken an immediate liking to Andrew, and Marguerite herself had encouraged the relationship between her opposite and her dearest friend.

But for Andrew, the real trouble was the kissing scene between him and Marguerite. Andrew was, by nature, a man disgusted with the idea of cheating on _any_one, and he felt that kissing Marguerite was wrong to both Suzanne and Percy.

"I just can't do it, Perce!" he'd argued one evening.

Percy had ignored him. "You've got to, man, whether you want to or not – it wouldn't capture people's interests if the hero didn't kiss the heroine! Demmed boring sort of film it'd be otherwise, you know."

"It feels _wrong_!"

"Well, good. That makes me feel _marginally_ better."

"Oh God, there you go talking nonsense again! Can't anyone have a _normal _conversation with you?"

Percy had merely laughed.

Marguerite, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed at the idea of kissing Andrew; he supposed it was because she was an actress and she kissed men all the time, regardless of their marital status.

_That_ was what grated Percy's nerves: Marguerite's blasé reaction to the whole thing.

He had told himself that he wasn't going to go to the studio the day the kissing scene was planned to be shot, but he found himself there anyways – in disguise, of course, because he didn't want Marguerite to notice him. Dressed as a janitor sweeping the set clean, he watched as the scene was filmed six times in succession; each time, the director was unsatisfied with Andrew's lack of passion.

In fact, the director finally called a halt and stormed onto the set, gesturing wildly and going on about how Andrew was doing it "all wrong", and launching into a long-winded explanation about the sensuality of the art of kissing, how the French always knew how to appreciate and excel at love, how the British had always been such cold fish, and how Andrew would have to overcome his upbringing to properly film the scene.

Percy was rather amused at his mate's bright red face – Andrew would have to splash some cold water on his cheeks before he could resume filming, otherwise he would look like a _drunk_ Scarlet Pimpernel. He nearly laughed aloud at the thought, but reconsidered, for it would only draw attention to himself and he couldn't risk being recognized while he was in disguise.

Marguerite herself was watching Andrew with an amused expression while the director continued to expound further upon the art of kissing, and Percy decided it would be best, too, if he stopped staring at her from the side wing and took a moment to splash cold water on _his_ face, lest he start daydreaming.

He turned his back on the scene before him and began to make his way through the studio, avoiding props and sets and machinery; he was nearly to the loo when he overheard a voice – a male voice, oily, low, and smooth – telling someone (in French) to wait outside on the back lot for him, that he would not be long. He merely needed a crumb of St. Just's time.

Percy halted as a surge of anxiety bubbled within his stomach at the sound of that voice, but he remained calm. Frowning, he slid behind a large plank of wood that was propped against the side of the studio, disappearing from sight. The man in question was standing in shadow near the rear door that led to the back alley behind the studio. He was dressed in black, and as soon as the door closed behind him, he was nearly impossible to make out in the dimly lit backstage area.

The director called for a break at that moment, and there was sudden movement from the stage as actors, cameramen, costumers, make-up artists, and others left their stations to run to the loo or grab a bite to eat. Marguerite herself came around backstage, holding Andrew's arm and laughing good-naturedly.

"Ah, you should not worry! Once you relax a bit, it will come naturally, I promise. I know what it really is, even though Fontbleu does not – you are head over heels for darling Suzanne, and I know you don't wish to hurt her. Believe me, Andrew – she understands how the business works. I am not falling in love with you, I assure you, and she knows that as well! It is just part of the act for the script."

"I know... but..."

"Non, do not fret over it. You will do just fine when we return to the set. Go, get some water to cool off a bit." Marguerite gave him a pretty smile and Andrew returned it wanly before heading to loo, leaving his pretty opposite standing by herself.

"Mademoiselle St. Just."

He saw the way she tensed at the voice – the way her body stiffened and her mouth tightened, the way her eyes flashed with slight fear before she turned to find the source. And Percy melted further into the shadows, lest she or the speaker notice him.

"I see you are well into production. Fontbleu must be elated to have such a masterpiece of a script and such a well-known actress playing his lead. I wager it will win the award for Best Picture!"

"What is it you want?" She asked bluntly, maintaining her composure and standing straight and tall with her chin lifted. She did, however, flinch just slightly when the man stepped from the shadows to greet her.

"I was merely stopping by to visit an old acquaintance..."

"Hardly," she retorted. "For we are not acquaintances, and you do not merely drop in on anyone for blasé conversation, Chauvelin."

"I am wounded, dear Marguerite. We were once friends. Has that changed, and I was not aware of it?"

"It changed a long time ago," was the curt response. "And you should have been very aware of it. What do you _want_?"

"Only your assistance, mademoiselle. I am looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel? What on earth for?" She snorted, most unlike herself. "_I_ certainly do not know him. You are wasting your time here."

"Am I? You are telling me that you are producing a film based on his... _amazing_ exploits? And yet you do not know his identity?"

"No. I do not. The medium of film is merely fantasy, even if it is based off of a real event or person. It is hardly surprising that someone has created this particular film; in fact, I'm rather surprised someone didn't come out with it three years ago. Goodbye."

She was already moving through the props, signaling the end of this odd chance meeting, when Chauvelin mused, "Still. He caused a good deal of trouble during the war."

"_Trouble? _He rescued innocents that you – a traitor to your country! – and the Nazis would send to death!" she hissed, turning back towards him in anger. "He caused trouble for Hilter, perhaps. But not for the rest of the world!"

Chauvelin smiled, his thin lips curving upward. "Ah. I was acquitted, Marguerite, and so you have no basis to call me a traitor. Still..." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, and took a long drag before adding, "There are many who would want to see him die even now, you know."

"Including _you_," she spat.

Percy could tell she was white to the lips; she looked ready to faint. He shifted slightly, making no noise, but there was no possible way to intervene so long as Chauvelin was so near.

"You misunderstand me," the man was saying unctuously. "I admire his daring...!"

"You admire his daring? And so you wish to locate him to tell him so, is that it?" Her eyes flashed. "You fooled me once, Chauvelin. You will not do so again."

Without another word, she turned and stormed amongst the sets and props, disappearing around a corner, and Chauvelin stood silently for thirty seconds or so, before he turned as well and headed for the backstage door. A strip of sunlight cut through the dusty interior of the rear studio before the door banged shut with an echo.

And across the dim shadows, Percy noticed a slight movement – startled, he narrowed his eyes, unaware someone else had been so close by. But then he realized; it was only Andrew opposite him on the other side of the rear door, having heard everything as well. Their gaze met, and Percy slipped away, pretending to sweep the floor.

He was rather glad Andrew _had_ overheard everything, actually. And they would most certainly discuss the conversation later.

* * *

><p>"So... She <em>was<em> fooled, then?" Andrew's brow furrowed. "Or was she pretending today?"

"She was fooled then; she was not pretending today. She fears him, as she rightly should. He is a force to be reckoned with."

"How did he manage to trick her, though?"

Percy sighed. "It was 1941. Chauvelin had no concrete proof that she knew the whereabouts of the four families in question. A friend of hers had told her – unwisely, for it was unwise to reveal such knowledge to anyone, even to a friend! – that three families were hiding in a secret room in a farmhouse about an hour outside of Paris. The friend was obtaining supplies for the French family that owned the farm, and was hoping Marguerite could assist. Which she agreed to do so if possible. It wasn't until a couple of weeks later, when she had a chance meeting with Chauvelin, that it came to light. He was playing a double agent then – pretending to be loyal to the French when, in reality, he was passing along information to the Nazi government. Marguerite, believing him to be loyal to the Allies, told him about the families in hopes that he might have them moved to a safer location."

"And instead," Andrew said darkly, "He contacted the SS and had them arrested."

"That is exactly what he did. They moved far too quickly for me to get involved. Regardless, even if I had been able to intervene, it would have been difficult to move so many refugees across the country to a safe zone in so short a time. Marguerite, horrified at what had happened, tried to contact Chauvelin, without success, and concluded that he must have been a traitor, for to her knowledge, no one else knew of the situation. And, afraid _she_ would be accused of being a traitor, afraid that it would be her word against Chauvelin's, she relocated to Switzerland."

"And at the trial, in 1946?"

"She pled innocent."

"As did Chauvelin..."

"They were both acquitted; Chauvelin oiled his way through the proceedings with amazing agility. I would be highly surprised if the man's tongue weren't forked. He insisted he was planning to move the families himself, but that he was attacked and his secret papers were stolen, revealing the whereabouts of the families and their hiding place."

Andrew made a derisive noise. "And that was believed?"

Percy smiled grimly. "The man walks free, does he not?"

"I find it difficult to believe the Americans bought such a story when they held proceedings. They honestly didn't question why the Nazis hadn't executed him if he had indeed been working for the French?"

"It was astounding. I can only say that he is a gifted speaker; he has the ability, like Hilter did, to spellbind an audience. Only Marguerite and myself were not fooled by his performance."

"Is she in danger from him now?"

"One would think not – after all, they were both acquitted, so who would believe her at this point? But I disagree. I think she _is_ in danger from Chauvelin. He doesn't like that she lives and secretly knows the truth. She is a liability to him, even if no one would believe her story except us. And Chauvelin is the sort of person who, er, dislikes loose ends."

"What do you think he will do?" Andrew's voice was worried.

Percy rose from his seat and crossed to the sideboard to pour another brandy. "I suspect he wants her dead, and I expect he'll make it look an accident to keep the authorities from discovering his involvement. Something like a car wreck over a cliff, or suicide by gunshot... overdose..."

"Good God...! You can't possibly be serious! That's..." Andrew trailed off suddenly, and then sighed. "It isn't that I doubt you, Perce. It's just horrible to think that he really _would_. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet. I plan to investigate him a bit further. He's having a dinner party at his apartment in Paris tomorrow evening, and I plan to be there as a waiter."

"A _waiter_? You'll stand out like a sore thumb! You'll be taller than anyone in the room, and –"

"Ah, but not if I'm slightly hunched and in my fifties, balding and slightly arthritic."

Andrew stammered for a moment before he found his voice again. "Oh, for God's sake, do be careful, Percy! He's searching for you, too. God knows how many people he put into concentration camps for the Nazis, but if I had to guess, you rescued a number of the ones he did! Otherwise he wouldn't have a reason to search for you! He'll be looking for disguises...!"

Percy laughed. "That, my dear fellow, is the _least_ of my worries! I expect that Monsieur Chauvelin will be so preoccupied with his dinner guests that he won't notice the poor serving staff. And I will be as unobtrusive as a bit of dust in a corner that no one notices! You can be certain of that."

"Who else is going to this dinner party?"

"From what Glynde has discovered, several... er, like-minded friends, so to speak. No acquaintances, mind. Everyone who received an invitation knew Chauvelin during the war, and they were somehow linked. All told, about twelve people will be there."

"That's rather a very small dinner party, considering."

"Yes, so I'm hoping it will be easy enough to gather information."

"But they won't say a word around the serving staff."

Percy only smiled. "Oh ye of little faith," he murmured. "I do wish you'd trust me more, Ffoulkes. I haven't failed you yet, have I?"

Andrew sighed and shook his head. "Just be careful. We'll breathe a lot better once the war is good and behind us."

"That, my friend, is the truest statement you've made all night!" Percy laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I really wish I had more of an idea of where this story is going, but alas... I don't. *hides* So please! Don't except awesome plots or anything like that. *sweatdrop* I'm making it up as a I go. (I know, I know. Yikes.)

I scribbled this chapter out from Chauvelin's perspective, which was interesting, but not nearly as humorous as previous chapters. I found I didn't want to write the conversation between Chauvelin and his friends - good Lord, it would have gone on for pages, been incredibly boring, disturbing, and I would have struggled desperately to get it written. Besides... Some things are best left unsaid.

**Disclaimer: **Obviously, CLEARLY, the author's personal views do not mimic Chauvelin's.

~BD

* * *

><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

* * *

><p>Chauvelin was meditating.<p>

It wasn't quite the same as how most people meditated, but the method he used worked well for him, so there was no reason to change. And truthfully, he didn't need to do it very often, for he was almost always in control of himself. But the past week had been a bit rough, and...

Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? The past ten _years_ had been rough. He had helped the Nazi government, because he believed their cause was right and just... because he was a student of history, Chauvelin was, and he remembered only too well how Germany had taken the brunt of the blame during the Great War – the war that was supposed to end all wars – back in 1918.

But war was not something that just magically ended; it was something that would happen continuously time and again as regimes rose and fell and someone else wanted power. Power was the only thing worth having, but once obtained, it had to be maintained, because there were always people who would want to take it away from those who possessed it.

He had always detested lowly races of humanity like the Jews and those other filthy ethnic groups that lived in the disgusting Slavic regions. To that end, he had played his role quite well: searching out the unclean for elimination, to further the Aryan race. He had not been high up with the ranks of spies and masterminds that worked on behalf of the Nazis, but he was high enough to pull weight and gifted enough in speech to oil his way out of sticky situations. He knew his advantage was rooted in his uncanny ability to charm those who would allow themselves to be charmed; to play the double role of a French patriot and of a Nazi; secretly passing along information to those who would pay him well for the knowledge he could obtain. It was a power struggle, it truly was, and playing such a game kept Chauvelin's mind sharp. He'd had to constantly look over his shoulder, for at any second the government he was helping mightn't turn on him – at the same time, the government he was pretending to help mightn't discover the truth. And yet, Chauvelin had thrived on such a game; it was sport to him.

The very, very few people who knew the truth were, to the best of his knowledge, on his side of the game – and few they were, for the more people who knew, the more likely it would be that he'd get caught. And to the best of his knowledge, only two people had discovered his secret against his wishes.

He had done well, he supposed bitterly, that _only_ two had discovered the truth about his allegiances. The trouble was, Marguerite St. Just was a well-known celebrity, and she had taken great pains to protect herself after she realized what he really was. Reaching her in Switzerland while the war played out was fruitless; he had other duties that were more important, and she was silent out of fear that she herself would be persecuted. But now, with the war over, it was even _more_ difficult to reach Marguerite and eliminate the potential threat she presented. The others of her profession surrounded her; or rather, Chauvelin suspected she deliberately surrounded herself with as many people as possible, to keep him at bay. But she could not play such a taxing game. Chauvelin himself knew how difficult it was, and he knew that Marguerite would eventually grow fatigued at her feeble attempts to keep him from reaching her to silence her permanently. He could wait patiently, but he didn't like the idea that she could also open her mouth at any moment during that time.

The second person to discover his secret had been someone he _should_ have guessed, but he hadn't. It was his mistake, and he ruefully admitted it. In truth, he had thought the enigma of the Scarlet Pimpernel was too busy saving refugees to worry about the elaborate spy networks of the various governments involved in the second war.

He had been wrong. So incredibly wrong.

Anger – the very emotion he had been trying to calm through meditation – broke the surface of his mind and his hand clenched upon a scrape of paper he had been holding between his fingers. It was a filthy little scrap, discovered in his coat pocket some eight years ago in 1943, with distorted writing that merely said, _One day, you will lose this game. I swear it by all that is Good and Holy_. It was stamped with a curious, awkward little red flower.

That detestable tiny flower had caused a wave of fury throughout the Third Reich; men with more power than Chauvelin had been assigned to seek and destroy the Scarlet Pimpernel, that man and his league who saved the scum of society – scum that deserved death! – from the gas chambers and the S.S. and the labor camps, but they had all failed and lost their lives for it. Chauvelin's assignment to track the mysterious man down had come at the height of the war, when crossing countries and battlefields was intensely dangerous. Still, Chauvelin survived and so did the Scarlet Pimpernel. The worst blow came in late 1944, when it was rumored that Hitler himself discovered a sheaf of paper in his desk drawer bearing that little flower and listing the names of the Jews rescued in the past month. Some doubted the rumor because, heavens! Could anyone have possibly entered the Furor's private residences to deliver such a piece of paper? It was impossible, surely! But Chauvelin knew it was true – 161 names had been listed on that piece of paper, and Chauvelin's life had only been spared because the rescues had occurred in what had been Poland, and not France.

The man who had been charged with tracking the Scarlet Pimpernel in Poland, however, had been shot by firing squad on Hitler's personal orders, and his body burned and destroyed.

The trouble was, Europe was so large! Chauvelin, who prided himself on his intelligence and cunning, was truly baffled at how this small league of Englishmen could save so many lives without getting killed in the process. Whomever they were, they were not ordinary soldiers – he knew that much. They were not in the army, navy, or the air force. They were men who were above draft age – of this, Chauvelin was certain. Perhaps they had previously served and been honorably discharged at the end of their term; but they were not young boys, fresh out of school and entering the war for honor and glory. They were older, wiser. They were masters of disguises, of strategy. And try as he might he could never lay his hands on any of them, let alone their fearless leader.

He had hints, of course. Another double agent, a man named Kulmstead, had passed along some crucially important information in November 1944 – the man had joined the very League that Chauvelin was so keen to bring down, while working secretly as a spy for the Germans. He had revealed to Chauvelin the identity of the very person Chauvelin so desired to destroy, but within two days of his confession, Kulmstead had gone missing and was discovered three weeks later, shot through the head in a deserted house near the French-German border. Chauvelin had not been surprised of the death, but he also had no idea if it had been the Nazis, the Allied Powers, or if the Scarlet Pimpernel himself had eliminated the threat. But it was no matter. Chauvelin had the information he wanted.

The trouble was, he couldn't use the bloody information. Percy Blakeney, Baronet was not in England these days; Chauvelin had traveled there himself, at great personal risk, and found nothing. Acquaintances, fooled by Chauvelin's near-perfect English accent, had confessed that Sir Blakeney spent most of this time overseas, but they could not say where. Some thought he was in the Caribbean. Others insisted he was in America. Still others claimed he'd gone to India or Australia. It was not until 1946 that Chauvelin actually saw the man in person and not in a photograph or painting, and it was at Chauvelin's own trial, no less! and _zut alors!_ Percy was a damned spectator and Marguerite was testifying against Chauvelin to save her own skin.

Yet the Americans hadn't had enough information to convict him and Chauvelin had walked free. Marguerite's expression was easy enough to read – shock, fear, panic, worry. But she also walked free; the Americans believed she had, indeed, been innocent.

Sir Percy Blakeney's expression was much more difficult to decipher, however. Chauvelin had stolen a glance at the man as he left the room, but the face was mask-like.

For some curious reason, he'd never revealed Percy Blakeney's duel identity to anyone. Oh, there had been several times that he'd actually written it down on paper, determined to mail it to the appropriate officers in the Nazi government, but he had always burned the letters after he wrote them, finding himself unable to actually forward them on. He knew secretly that if he were to divulge the information, or even reveal that he _knew_ the identity of the man, the Nazis would no longer have use for him. They would either give him a different assignment and send highly trained assassins to find Blakeney, or else kill Chauvelin to keep the information silent. As long as he played his part well, he could continue the game, and by the end of the war, it had become so personal that Chauvelin couldn't stomach the thought of anyone else taking credit for the Scarlet Pimpernel's demise.

He exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes to the scene before him: Paris, brightly lit, dazzling in nightly color, the war behind her and a glimmering future ahead of her. His dinner guests would arrive shortly, and Chauvelin would need to be in command of his emotions. His friends were all pro-Nazis that had slunk back into society after the war, escaping trials and sentencing, pretending to have been loyal to the Allied cause all along, but secretly having never changed at all. Chauvelin wasn't certain if any of them could assist him in getting rid of Marguerite or not, but these men had connections, and one of those connections might prove useful. A talented hit man or assassin... even someone who could disguise themselves to slip into her apartments or the studios and collect information on where she would be and when.

Chauvelin turned away from the window and frowned at the small dining room. It was rarely put to use; he didn't cook much himself, and the space was normally vacant, save for the antique table, chairs, and sideboard. He had hired a catering service for the evening and the owner had allowed him to select from his employees anyone whom he wished to help serve. The waiter now hobbling about the table was hunched and graying, older than Chauvelin himself, possibly in his sixties, and deaf as a doorknob. Which was precisely why Chauvelin had selected him. The caterer had tried to persuade him to use one of the younger men, someone more able-bodied. He had only recently hired the old, deaf fellow out of sympathy, he'd explained to Chauvelin the afternoon prior. The man had apparently been too close to a shell when it went off in the Great War and he was now moving from job to job in an attempt to find a place that would suit him in his advancing age.

Chauvelin had not changed his mind, however. A deaf old man was ideal for such a dinner party as he was hosting – he wouldn't overhear anything he oughtn't, whereas one of the younger men might, and then report Chauvelin to the authorities. Chauvelin didn't feel much like dealing with such trifling matters when there were more important things to consider: Marguerite's and Blakeney's silence, for instance. He was certain, too, that his guests would not mind an old server even if he were slow, for the mere fact that the man couldn't hear their conversations. When the owner of the catering service realized Chauvelin would not choose anyone else, he had assured him that the man could _see_ perfectly fine, and it was best to cue the courses by a gesture or nod, rather than voice command.

The door chime sounded, but the garcon did not appear to hear it. Loudly, Chauvelin said, "That will do! If you will wait by the door to the kitchen!"

He wasn't certain if the man heard him any better than he'd not heard the door chime, but the man was at least watching him, and if nothing else, he saw Chauvelin's gesture. He nodded jerkily, and in a voice hoarse and rasping from lack of use (or perhaps simply from not being able to hear himself), he muttered, "Oui, monsieur." He shuffled to the door and stood to wait, the effect marred by the arthritic hunch of his shoulders.

Chauvelin smoothed his hair back out of habit and went to the door, opening it to find four of his friends, dressed in neat suits and smiling unctuously. He returned the smile, because he would not dare allow them to see anything else within him, and ushered them into the flat, while the old servant moved to pour wine.

* * *

><p>It was nearly midnight when the last of the guests left, laughing loudly and a bit annoyingly; rather tipsy from too much wine and after-dinner bourbon. As soon as the door closed behind the final gentleman, Chauvelin sighed heavily and resisted the urge to lean against the wood. It had been a long evening, but productive if nothing else; several of the guests had suggestions as to what could be done about Marguerite to ensure her silence on their activities during the war, and Chauvelin had made mental notes of the best of them. None were as brilliant as he'd hoped, but then again, very little would be truly brilliant – the world was watching too closely still, and Chauvelin would have to err on the side of caution regardless of anything else.<p>

He would lure Marguerite away from the movie set, preferably by a note written in Fonteblue's handwriting, instructing her that part of the filming would take place in the Alps. One of his contacts knew someone underground who could handle the forged note; another someone who could tamper with Marguerite's car to ensure it didn't make it over the mountain. A car wreck was perhaps not the way Chauvelin would have chosen, but he was unfortunately desperate, and outright murder was too traceable. A deadly car wreck would place blame on Marguerite herself, especially if the vehicle did not actually show signs that it had been tampered with. A good mechanic was essential for that, but one of his friends knew just the mechanic for the job, he'd claimed..

Straightening up, Chauvelin returned to the dining room to find the old server slowly collecting plates and silverware, hobbling about as he did so. It took a rather long time, but Chauvelin bit his tongue and didn't complain – the man had been blissfully unaware of the conversation that had taken place, thanks to his deafness, and for that, Chauvelin didn't care if he moved slower than cold molasses. Leaving the man to his work, Chauvelin returned to his study to make a few notes for future reference.

An hour later, the table was clear and the dishes cleaned and packed away; the caterer was due to arrive the next morning at eight o'clock precisely and collect them. Chauvelin reentered the dining room to find it just as it had been before the dinner party. He reached within his dressing jacket and withdrew a tip, more generous than he normally would have given, and handed it to the old waiter.

"For your good service this evening," he said, speaking as loudly as he could without shouting. He gestured towards the door, indicating the man was free to leave.

The man, clearly surprised by such a tip, bowed as low as his rheumatism would allow, sputtering and choking his thanks. He even bowed himself out of the door, like some warped servant from olden times, and for a brief moment Chauvelin wondered how on earth the man would get home. The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come; it was not his concern what happened to the elderly man once he left, and with a snort, he closed the door with a snap and put the waiter out of his mind.

He had more important things to mull over.

* * *

><p>The old waiter slowly descended the stairs, one foot at a time, until he finally reached the ground floor. The night was crisp and chilly; spring was coming but not quite there yet, and it was obvious that the cold weather was taking its toll on his bones and joints as he shuffled down the pavement to the next cross street. He turned up this road, silent and empty this time of evening, and turned down an alley. Another alley over, he glanced up and saw a car – it was not running and the headlights were off, but there was a man sitting within it, lazily smoking a cigarette. The tiny red glow flickered as he inhaled, and then draped his arm outside his open window, slowly exhaling the smoke into the chilly night air.<p>

When the man in the car saw the old waiter approaching, he quickly leaned across the front seat and unlocked the passenger door. And the old man, who had been hunched over all evening, suddenly straightened up, his shoulders becoming broad and tall, his back lengthening, and he stretched mightily to a height of six-two and opened the door.

The driver took another drag off the cig and mused, "You'll be sore for a week, you know. You've been walking that way since six this evening."

The waiter chuckled at this, and shucked off his tails, waistcoat, and cummerbund. "A small price to pay, I'm afraid!" he said, as he walked around to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and tossed the articles of clothing within. He extracted a much thicker coat from inside the trunk and shrugged into it, then pressed the trunk closed without making hardly any noise, and hurried back to the car and slipped into the passenger seat.

The driver offered him a cigarette case and a lighter; the waiter took it and lit up. Only after he had taken a long drag and exhaled did he say, "Well. Let's get out of here, shall we, Tony?"

Tony was already rolling up his window. "Fine by me. Not so much as the first pretty lass to walk by this way in four hours. Been as dreary as you could imagine, sitting here, waiting on you to walk out of the lion's den, Perce."

"It wasn't quite _that_ bad," Percy said lightly, taking another drag.

"Next you'll be saying their roar is worse than their bite," Tony mused, turning the key in the ignition. "Andy is right about you, you know. You're always blathering some sort of nonsense."

Percy laughed. "Better than listening to it, wouldn't you agree?"

"Not if I'm the one having to listen!"

"Well, I'm afraid when we arrive at the meeting, there will be less nonsense to blather on about, and some serious issues to discuss." Percy sighed and leaned back in the seat. "Chauvelin is a real piece of work, I'm afraid, and he has some nasty business planned for our fair actress."

Tony's relaxed expression changed to one of annoyance. "Would be easier, you know, if she actually liked you."

But his leader only shrugged, took another drag, and murmured, "Like has nothing to do with it. Her life is in danger. And I cannot overlook that, regardless of what she thinks of me."

Only one who had been around him a long time would have noticed the sadness in his eyes as he said it; Tony, who had known him since boyhood, did.

But out of respect for his leader and sheer Britishness, he said nothing; instead, he put the car in gear, pulled smoothly and quietly out of the alley, and left Percy Blakeney to his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note on Chapter 4:** This chapter originally started out quite different. The car was really going to crash, and Marguerite and Andrew were going to get captured immediately. But it didn't flow properly and I scraped it. I mean, ex-Nazi's are more likely to shoot their victims instead of keeping them alive, so that became rather a dead-end. Fortunately, I had a slight revelation. Why fix what's not broken? No point at all, says I. So in the end, I stole a scene from the Baroness's original novel and ran with it. It worked then and I figured it would work now. And it was bloody fun to write the first part.

**Author's Note on Character Ages:** In _The Scarlet Pimpernel_, according to the Baroness, Percy was ~28-ish, Chauvelin between 45 and 49, and Marguerite ~25 (if I'm remembering correctly). However, because of the time frame of this AU, the ages are subsequently different. I realized that Chauvelin made the observation in Chapter 3 that the League were over draft age, and yeah, that was an error on my part. *hides* At the time I wrote it, I hadn't researched British Conscription during WWII. Mea culpa. I should know better than to write without researching.

_Now_ I know that in 1939, British conscription encompassed men between the ages of 18 to 41, and by 1942, the maximum age had bumped to 51 and also included women aged 20-30 (unless they were married OR if they had children under the age of 14 living with them). There were exceptions to the rule of course (clergy, employed in vital industry, mental illness, blind, students...) but every member of the League would have actually been of conscription age, and I do apologize for the oversight. In my head, the story takes place starting in September 1949, which was when the Cannes Film Festival was held that year, and moving into January/February of 1950. I envisioned Chauvelin his late 50's (he would have to have been born ca. 1900 or earlier to have been drafted into WWI, though he could have enlisted at a younger age with a forged ID, perhaps even having been born as late as 1903 and wormed his way into a military unit), Percy in his mid/late 30's, and Marguerite in her early 30's but looking much younger thanks to her profession.

**Author's Note on Future Chapters****:** Future chapters will very likely include characters from another _Pimpernel_ novel, _Sir Percy Hits Back_. If you've never read it, you really should. It delves into Chauvelin's past in true Baroness style, and I'm going to borrow characters from it for this story, because I do love a couple of them. (If you have read it, you can probably guess the two I intend to use.)

~BD

* * *

><p>Andrew hated the plan. It wasn't that he didn't trust Percy, but good God; he <em>hated<em> the plan! Percy's insane idea of protecting Marguerite was to _save_ her, not stop Chauvelin before he got started! And for the life of him, Andrew couldn't make any sense in it, unless it was because Percy was trying so bloody hard to win Marguerite's love when she clearly hated him. It would have been easier if Percy had sent Holte to repair the vehicle damage wrought by Chauvelin's accomplices _before_ Andrew and Marguerite even _left_ for the Alps, but for some unfathomable reason, Percy actually _wanted_ the car to wreck on the way to God only knew where.

Andrew could feel the way the axle shifted every time he hit a bump in the road. Inevitably, his hands would grip the wheel until his knuckles turned white and taut. Beside him, Marguerite was growing impatient with his slow speed, though she'd said nothing to him as of yet. Still, she could threaten him with death and he would refuse to drive faster – and quite honestly, death was what they were both threatened with at the moment, and she really had no idea of any of it! Fontebleu _did_ want to film in the Alps...but his location was quite different than the address on the note Marguerite had received, and blast it all, if Percy had left that alone, too. Andrew _just couldn't make sense of it_.

"_Zut alors_," Marguerite sighed, resettling her coat around her shoulders. "Why must he wish to film all the way up here? The weather is getting worse by the second!"

Oh yes, the weather was truly horrendous, and Andrew darkly wondered if Percy had arranged _that_ with the Almighty as well. He had enough bloody clout, it seemed. What had started as light, breezy flurries had turned into a steady snowfall. If it kept up, the roads would be too icy to keep driving, and probably within the hour. Andrew gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes at a curve ahead. He hoped, desperately and against all hope, that the bloody axel would hold until they reached the phony destination, at which point he could pretend to be just as confused as Marguerite, and suggest they stay the night wherever the road played out. If, of course, there was actually something _at_ the end of the road.

Furthermore, regardless of what happened and where they ended up, he'd have to stay awake all night. There was no telling where Percy was, or any of the others, and certainly no telling where Chauvelin and _his_ men were. Andrew had been watching the road behind him for some time, but he hadn't seen any car lights following him. He'd anticipated that, and it was this that bothered him more than anything else, really. He'd _expected_ to be followed, and it didn't appear that they were being followed at all. Which meant whoever was behind this – Chauvelin and all his men – were cleverer than they let on.

The axle gave a slight pull and Andrew slowed to a crawl. Beside him, Marguerite clicked her tongue.

"We'll never arrive timely if you don't speed up a bit."

He decided not to lie, and replied cautiously, "Something is wrong with the car."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Surely not."

"I can feel it pulling on the road. It seems as though the axle is damaged, but I can't imagine how. I daren't go faster, I'm afraid. I intend to have someone inspect it as soon as we arrive."

Marguerite fell silent and Andrew re-concentrated his efforts on the snowy road ahead. It was growing darker by the second as well, though it was still only mid-afternoon.

After a few moments, when they had navigated safely around the curve, Marguerite opened the glove compartment and pulled out a map. It took her a few seconds, but she located their position faster than Andrew could have done, and she murmured, "There is a village up ahead, within another mile, I believe. I think it would be best if we stopped there until this storm passes. Fontbleu cannot chastise us for waiting the weather out."

Andrew hesitated. Regardless of what Percy wanted or didn't want, it was indeed foolish to keep driving. But would it be just as foolish to stop? What if Chauvelin had men in the village waiting for them? What if they had anticipated the weather?

However, his question was answered for him, for a mile further up the road, when the village came within sight, a man with a lantern flagged them down just before the first building.

Andrew came to a stop and hesitatingly rolled the window down, praying the man was not one of Chauvelin's spies. However, to his relief, the man spoke to him in gruff French.

"_The pass is snowed under just ahead, monsieur. You'll have to stop here for the night. The inn is on the square. They still have rooms available._"

Marguerite leaned over him and politely thanked the gentleman, and Andrew couldn't help but smile wryly. His female co-star really thought the man was French, but he knew damned well it was actually Bathurst, who had a scar on his cheek that couldn't be concealed by the scarf or hat he was wearing. It was reflected in weird relief by the flickering lantern and falling snow.

"_Merci, Monsieur_," Andrew replied, giving his friend a pointed look.

Bathurst returned it with a curt nod and turned to go back inside the building behind him.

Andrew rolled the window back up, and Marguerite shivered violently next to him. "_Brrrrr_! _Mon Dieu_, but it is _freezing_! Let us hurry, _non_?"

Andrew agreed and put the car back in gear, but just the same, he couldn't help but wonder what on earth Percy was up to _now_. Because clearly, the plan had changed.

* * *

><p>Marguerite surveyed the tiny room critically. Granted, it was clean, but it was also incredibly small. The bed was jammed against the wall and the curtains on the window looked as though they had been sewn before the <em>first<em> war. The radiator was warm, at least, but the dresser was scuffed and the bathroom narrow and tight; she reminded herself more than once that it was only for a few nights at the very most. Provided that the storm blew over and the snow on the pass melted by the end of the week, of course. Fontbleu was crazy if he thought they could film in this weather!

Well, what mattered now was getting something to eat. Andrew had mentioned something about finding out if they could eat at the inn, or if they would have to brave the weather to cross the square to a restaurant. It would be best to venture downstairs and wait on him.

She glanced once in the little circular mirror on the wall. She looked pale. There was little chance of her being recognized, for at the moment she looked nothing like the famous movie star, and every bit the little girl she'd been in the thirties, wearing a non-descript gray dress with her hair down in wavy curls, pinned back to one side with a barrette, instead of swept up and styled as it normally was. Of course, sometimes she felt a wave of fatigue that had nothing to do with her exhausting schedule and everything to do with the fact that she'd grown up an orphan after her parents' deaths, under the care of her dear older brother. She had become involved in the theatre during her childhood because they'd needed the money. Because Armand couldn't make enough even with the three jobs he was trying to hold down while raising her. When she was discovered by a film director at the age of 16, she had leapt at the chance to move up in the industry – Armand had encouraged her because he loved her, and he'd stayed by her side the entire while, or at least until the war seemed utterly inevitable. Then he had left her to join the French Resistance, and she had never heard another word from him or about him. It was as though he had vanished into thin air, and she knew deep down that he must have been killed or captured. A small part of her desperately hoped that maybe, perhaps, one day, he would return to her, for he was all she'd ever had, and once he had disappeared, she'd had no one left. She didn't trust those who had been her friends before the war, because of Chauvelin, and maybe that was what made Chauvelin's betrayal so much more difficult to process, because she had not had Armand to lean on for support. Chauvelin had stabbed her in the back as he had likely done countless others, and Marguerite had had no one to rely upon after the fact.

She sighed heavily as she left her room, moved down the quiet hall, and stopped on the landing. She could see over the railing into the cozy downstairs of the little country inn: a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth, snow was falling thickly outside the lead-glass windows, and the squat owner was nowhere in sight. However, to her utter horror, there _was_ another person in the room, and he was sitting at a table by the fire, making notes on a scrap of paper.

The very devil she had just been mulling over!

Marguerite barely stifled a gasp by pressing her palm tight to her mouth; she shrank back into the shadows silently, hiding behind a large potted fir tree that was situated in the corner of the landing. _God in heaven, what should she do_? _She had to find Andrew; they had to leave this place immediately_!

No – no, there was no way to leave, the roads were snowed under! Panic bubbled up within her chest so rapidly she thought she would faint from sheer dizziness. She slid slightly down the wall, hidden further from sight from downstairs. She and Andrew would be unable to leave their rooms! Chauvelin knew Andrew was playing her opposite because he had come to the studio that one afternoon, and if he saw Andrew here in this mountain inn, he would know Marguerite was nearby. _But why on earth was Chauvelin here at all_? She tried to rack her brain for the answer, but nothing came to her, for she was so shocked by his appearance that she had been reduced to near tears and hysterics. He must be after _her_; that was the only explanation, for he had randomly appeared at filming a couple of months ago, apparently looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel, of all things. That must have been his cover, something to trick her. He was really just trying to get near her to kill her. ...Or perhaps he was _really_ looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel? But if that were the case, why would he think the man would be _here_, of all places? That made no sense whatsoever; why would the Scarlet Pimpernel be in a snowed-in mountain village in the French Alps? No. He was really after her, not the mysterious Pimpernel. He could have obtained the filming schedule from anyone involved in the production of _The Invisible Savior_, any staff member who may have left the information lying about the studios.

The door of the inn swung open in a blast of cold air and wind and snow, and the chill traveled all the way to the landing. For this, she was somewhat grateful; the frigid air kept her from fainting and even cleared her head some. She did not remove her hand from her mouth, lest she still feel the urge to scream, but she glanced through the fir's branches in utter terror to see if it were Andrew who had entered and if the game was up.

But no – Marguerite's eyes widened. She couldn't imagine that she could have been any more shocked than moments before, when she had seen Chauvelin seated downstairs. But to see _Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet _enter the room was utterly _mind-boggling_. Perhaps the air was thin up in the mountains and she was hallucinating? God, she certainly hoped so. Her razor-sharp, famous wit had completely failed her this evening; she could formulate no reason for _either_ man being in this village or this inn at the same time she was.

Chauvelin did not look up when the door opened, but merely continued his silent perusal of his papers. Sir Percy, however, glanced once about the room, then swept off his great coat and hung it on one of several pegs by the door, loosened his scarf, and strolled across the room like the gigantic lout he was.

"Blasted cold out, innit?" he drawled, not stopping until he reached the fire and turned to warm his backside, his hands twisted behind him towards the heat.

The effect of his voice upon Chauvelin, Marguerite noticed, was instantaneous and extremely _odd_. In fact, she had never seen Chauvelin, who was a master at appearing cool and collected at all times, look so incredibly surprised, furious, or shocked. He looked just as shocked as Marguerite felt, and she wondered why on earth he should be surprised. Certainly he didn't know Blakeney – the two men moved in very different circles, and Chauvelin did not like Brits. Marguerite remembered that much from when they had been friends before the war; he had complained of the British often enough in her salon, during her parties, and they'd all had a laugh about how different the French and British were back then.

"_You_!" Chauvelin finally spat, his voice betraying his fury.

Blakeney looked confused. "Me? I say, have we, er...met before, sir? You don't look familiar, but then, my memory _is_ rather abysmal."

Well, _that_ much was the truth, Marguerite thought.

"_Enough_!" Chauvelin rose to his feet swiftly, tucking his papers inside the jacket of his suit. "What do you want? Why are you here?" It was a demanding voice, the sort of voice one would use in a courtroom against someone on the stand.

Blakeney said nothing for a moment, and then he laughed that _awful_ laugh – that quiet, inane laugh Marguerite so detested. She felt her raw nerves stretch tighter. Chauvelin, apparently, disliked the sound as well, for his hands balled into fists at his sides, as though he would strike Blakeney if he could. But Blakeney was a good head or so taller than Chauvelin, and perhaps that was why the man held back.

"I only desired to get warm, sir. Saw the fire through the window! 'Tis deathly cold out. Zooks, didn't I already say that? Apologies!" He turned his back on Chauvelin to face the fire, warming his hands and face. "I can't get over the mountain, don't you know. No one can, apparently. I was going skiing this weekend, but I'm afraid that's out of the question for a few days. Of course, once the storm stops, there should be a few good feet of fresh powder up there, which should be marvelous fun. Don't you agree? I do love a good slope."

Were it not for the gravity of the situation, Marguerite would have laughed vindictively at Chauvelin's awful, hateful expression. His face was growing redder by the second; he looked like a teakettle that had been left on the stove too long, or a thermometer that had been placed in boiling liquid and the mercury was rising rapidly, ready to break the glass.

"You are not in the French Alps to go skiing, Blakeney, and we both know it!" he snarled.

Blakeney, God bless him, looked dumbfounded, and said in a confused voice, "Oh? Then what I _am_ here for?"

Of course, it couldn't possibly be too difficult for him to be dumbfounded, for he really was a moron, Marguerite thought. But regardless of how she felt about him, she liked him marginally more than Chauvelin, and she wouldn't want him to fall into whatever trap Chauvelin was laying for her or the Scarlet Pimpernel. Blakeney was merely an innocent bystander, after all. He had never stabbed her in the back; he was only irritating and stupid.

Chauvelin's voice dropped to a hissing whisper. "I saw you that day. And I know why you were there!"

Blakeney's expression was unreadable; with his back to the fire, the shadows played tricks across his face that Marguerite couldn't make out.

And then Chauvelin withdrew something from his pocket – something quite small. A tiny scrap of old, dirty paper. He held it up between two fingers, and to Marguerite's further surprise, Blakeney seemed to find this odd behavior _incredibly_ amusing, for he burst out laughing.

Not that inane laugh she loathed, either. A very different sort of laugh. A ringing, deep laugh that made her draw back slightly. It was entirely out of place. It was confusing and strange. It wasn't like him at all; it was a laugh that belonged to someone who was confident and intelligent, who commanded the world at his fingertips, rather than stumbled up the stairs.

After a few moments, the laughter subsided and Blakeney snorted, "Good God, how diverting! What on earth is _that_, man?"

"You know damned well what it is!" Chauvelin's voice rose slightly in his anger.

Blakeney pulled out a cigarette case from within his trouser pocket and opened it, withdrew a cig, and closed the case with a snap. After he'd lit up and exhaled, he moved away from the fire and behind Chauvelin, to the center of the room, as though meandering about how that he was warm. "I do apologize if I've upset you," he said conversationally, glancing at the table Chauvelin had been using, and then moving towards it. "But I really am afraid I'm only a tourist here for the ski season. You must have me confused with someone else."

Chauvelin turned towards the fire, presumably to calm his temper before continuing with the conversation, though Marguerite could tell he was still absolutely furious. With his back turned, he didn't notice Blakeney pick up and examine the cigarette case Chauvelin had left on the table while working on his secret papers.

Marguerite only just did catch it _–_ a slight of hand, so quick that it was nearly impossible to notice. She blinked. Where on earth had someone as slow and dim-witted as Blakeney learned such a trick? She had seen it many times in the theatre – magicians and fraudsters used it frequently in their stage shows. He had slipped a cigarette in the case and slipped several out, placing them in his pocket, and then before she quite realized it, he had moved on around the back of the chair and towards the windows across the front of the inn.

Chauvelin, still facing the fire, spoke again, and his voice was as cold as ice. "I swore then," he growled, "that I would make you pay for your insolence, Blakeney. _I will not fail_."

"Ah?" Blakeney responded blandly, still gazing out of the window at the snow. "Failure is certainly depressing, isn't it?"

Chauvelin swiveled from the fire, grabbed his own cigarette case and extracted one, lighting it sharply and taking a long drag from it, as though he needed the drug to get him through the conversation (which he probably did). "And you may as well know, Blakeney, that as for St. Just..."

Marguerite inhaled sharply through her fingers, but before she could hear just what Chauvelin was planning for her, he started coughing furiously.

Her eyes snapped back to Blakeney – he was still standing by the window, with his back towards the stairs. He turned just slightly, just enough for her to catch his profile. The smallest smirk tugged the corner of his lips upward, and his blue eyes flashed with amusement. Chauvelin continued to cough, most violently, and Blakeney turned, took his coat from the peg without any sort of notion that he was in a hurry, slipped it on, saluted the Frenchman with a sarcastic expression, and disappeared out of the door and into the cold, snowy night.

Chauvelin remained in the center of the room, coughing terribly, until he dropped to all fours. The cigarette was just in danger of catching the rug on fire when the owner of the inn came bustling in the room, yelled an expletive, grabbed the thing before it burned his business down, threw it in the fire, and yelled for his wife to bring some water for the poor man out front.

Marguerite, terrified and confused, suddenly found her feet, pushed herself up the wall, and hurried silently back to her room. She had to find Andrew, and quickly. They had to get out of here, if such a thing was possible. Chauvelin very likely wanted her dead, because he still remembered that she alone knew the truth about his allegiances. But where in heaven Blakeney fit into the story was an utter mystery; it just didn't make sense. She shut the door behind her, locked it, and sank onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath her and she rested her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands.

She didn't have much chance to sort through her thoughts, however. Less than two minutes later, a knock on her door made her jump terribly; she sat up and stared at it in fear. Fortunately, to her relief, Andrew's voice echoed from the other side, and she visible sagged.

"Mademoiselle? We will have to cross the street to the restaurant to get something to eat. The owner of the inn is quite busy trying to help a poor fellow that got choked, I'm afraid."

As fast as lightening, Marguerite jumped up and grabbed her coat and scarf, and was half into them as she threw the door open. "I am starved," she said quickly, pulling the other sleeve on. "Are you ready, Andrew?"

Andrew look surprised at her quick response, but nodded and offered his arm. "Yes, of course."

If he was surprised by her quick response, it was nothing to how surprised he seemed as she practically dragged him downstairs. She glanced hurriedly around the room where Blakeney and Chauvelin had just had their brief encounter, but it was empty. She could hear distant coughing in a back room, and she tightened her scarf as Andrew held the door open. The cold air whipped her in the face but she ignored it, and plunged into the icy night, with Andrew right behind her.

The walk across the square was brutal, and she was incredibly thankful to stumble into the dark, empty, candlelit restaurant. A waiter sat them at a table in a corner and went to fetch menus. Marguerite sighed as she looked about, but they appeared to be the only customers.

And then suddenly, before she could make some mundane comment, a grating voice broke the silence of the room.

"Ffoulkes! Good God, man, what a coincidence to find you here in the middle of a snowstorm!"

Marguerite tensed and looked up to see Blakeney towering over their table, his hands loose in his trouser pockets and his sweater close-fitting, showing off his musculature. She jerked her eyes away, determined not to stare at him.

He seemed to only just notice her, but immediately bowed politely over the table and added, "Ah! Mademoiselle St. Just! You as well, hm? Is Fontbleu filming in this storm? What rotten luck, eh? I'd hate to have to film out in this mess!"

Andrew answered for her, his voice slightly terse. "He was planning to film further up the mountain, but unfortunately, the pass is closed under."

"Ah yes, the wretched pass! I was up this way for a bit of skiing, myself – well, that's out of the question for another day or so too, isn't it? But at least the storm will drop some fresh powder up there," Blakeney said cheerfully. "I say; you wouldn't mind if I join in dinner, would you? Came over by myself this time. Couldn't find anyone to join me. Hate to eat alone, don't you know." He turned to find the waiter and flagged the man down. "Bon-sewer, my good man! Another place-setting here?"

Though his French was absolutely _horrid_, Marguerite found she didn't mind Blakeney's joining them nearly as much as she would have a few months prior; in fact, if he sat with them, his huge frame would block her smaller one from view of the door, and perhaps any of Chauvelin's men would think twice before interrupting them if they only saw Blakeney and Andrew.

Still, his presence left her fishing for conversation. Glancing between the two men, she asked tightly, "How do you know each other, if I may ask?"

"Oh, Andy and I were in school together," Blakeney replied brightly, taking menus from the waiter and passing them around. Then he added, "Your best burgundy, my good man!"

The waiter, who clearly spoke just French, started to complain that he did not understand Blakeney, and Marguerite spoke up swiftly before the man could get started on a tirade about the English. "_Votre meilleur Bourgogne, se il vous plaît_."

The waiter looked relieved at her interference and his attitude changed completely. He nodded politely to her and thanked her.

Blakeney beamed, and before the man could leave, he said, "Oh, excellent, mademoiselle! Would you let him know to put the dinner and the wine on my tab? I'll pay for everything this evening, my treat."

Marguerite glared at him for using her as a translator, but considering he knew absolutely no French whatsoever (or what little he _did_ know, he couldn't remotely pronounce), she had little choice but to do as he asked. Drawing a deep breath and keeping her back rigid and her jaw straight, she looked at the waiter and added, while gesturing towards Blakeney, "_Ce monsieur va payer pour nos repas et le vin_."

The waiter bowed politely and advised Marguerite that he would return momentarily with the wine, and that he would take their orders then. She breathed a long sigh as he bustled off.

Then Blakeney was blathering again. "I must say; I do wish I could speak French as well as Mademoiselle St. Just! Confounded language is so bloody confusing! No offense, of course," he added quickly, smiling at her. "I just never got the hang of it!"

She scowled at him stonily; across from her, Andrew had buried himself behind a menu.

Blakeney looked at her curiously. "You don't seem yourself tonight. Are you well?"

"I am tired." She kept her voice clipped and curt. "And a bit out of sorts, sir."

That was true enough. There was no reason to mention Chauvelin. Neither of these men knew anything about her past, about the war and the Jewish families that had perished at her hand, and Andrew likely wouldn't know who Chauvelin was at all. More unnerving was Blakeney's unknown connection to Chauvelin, and that troubled her slightly. She didn't want to give him any information if she could help it. Besides, what did he know of her true self? He had only ever seen her on the screen, at a dinner party, at the Cannes Film Festival in September, and occasionally during the current filming. He knew nothing of her.

"You are...er...attired a bit differently, as well," Blakeney noted, his eyes flickering towards her simple dress.

She bit her tongue to keep from snapping something nasty. "I do not always dress in fancy gowns and high heels, monsieur. Contrary to popular belief, I prefer a rather simple way of life."

"Oh?" Blakeney's brow furrowed slightly. "You don't enjoy the finer things of life?"

Marguerite gritted her teeth. "I did not say _that_. I _said_ I prefer a simple way of life. My childhood and the war, sir, taught me to be frugal."

She hated herself the moment she said it. She did not want Blakeney or even Andrew to know how hard her life had been in the 1930's, or how devastated she had been to lose Armand, or how upset she had been when she'd learned of Chauvelin's betrayal.

So she picked up her menu and went on coolly, "I suppose, Monsieur Blakeney, that you have never had to experience frugalness in your entire life. But some of us were not born wealthy, you know."

Blakeney's lips twitched; Andrew buried himself further behind his menu.

"Actually, mademoiselle, I think the dress suits you well. I prefer it to your usual, if I may say so."

"Oh?" Her lips twisted sarcastically. "I thought you preferred a lady in a strapless gown so you could gawk at her."

Blakeney opened his mouth to respond, but thank _God_ the waiter returned at that moment with the wine, and Marguerite was able to ignore her two dinner companions for a bit. However, once their orders were taken and the waiter had returned to the kitchen, she found she did not want to continue the conversation at all, and her eyes drifted nervously towards the windows. Had Chauvelin recovered from the odd, fake cigarette Blakeney had switched on him? What if he came in the door and saw Blakeney? He would surely approach the man, and then he would see her.

Blakeney's grating voice rang in her ear again. "Here, drink this. It should help. You look as though you had a wretched headache."

She didn't _want_ to do what he'd told her, for the simple fact that _he_ was the one who had made the suggestion, but wine _would_ help her headache, and so she began to sip on it slowly, grimacing at the fact that he kept watching her.

"Where are you staying, Blakeney?" Andrew asked suddenly. His arms were crossed and he was staring intently at the candle on the table. For some reason, he looked highly irritated. Perhaps he didn't much care for Blakeney's idiocy either, Marguerite thought dryly. It wouldn't surprise her; Andrew was an intelligent sort, and Blakeney was simply a dunce.

"Oh, the little inn across the way. Quaint little place, but cozy enough. I ran into a rather odd fellow inside there, just before dinner – a little Frenchman all in black, but he spoke English, don't you know! I think he must have had me confused with someone else."

If Blakeney's encounter with Chauvelin had struck Marguerite as strange, Andrew's reaction to this blasé remark was even stranger. His face visibly paled and his eyes snapped from the candle to Blakeney.

"_What_? Who was it?"

"I'm sure I've no idea!" Blakeney laughed softly, and Marguerite gripped her wine glass more tightly as he went on, "Perhaps he was mad. I've never met anyone who was mad, but he was positively raving at me! Strange folks, the French."

"_I_ am French," Marguerite reminded him icily.

Blakeney chuckled. "Present company excluded, of course!"

Marguerite did not respond, but inhaled sharply and looked away. He was truly insufferable! She wished he were not here!

Andrew spoke up again, though rather hesitatingly. "If there is a madman on the loose," he said, eyeing Blakeney carefully, "then perhaps it would be best if Marguerite stayed elsewhere, tonight. What if he is staying in the same inn we all are?"

"Oh, I'm sure we are all safe enough," Blakeney said, his voice gratingly cheerful. "We will be there too, remember? And besides, if he is mad, hopefully the inn keeper will throw him out into the cold, say wot?" He laughed at this idea, and Marguerite was immensely grateful that the waiter appeared at that moment with their food.

Fortunately the meal was relatively quiet – she supposed Blakeney _could_ talk with his mouth full, but even _he_ had more social grace and propriety than _that_, and he was thankfully silent. As for herself, Marguerite merely picked at her dinner. The more she thought of Chauvelin, here in this little mountain town, the more her stomach twisted in fear and confusion. She grew less and less hungry; the food on her plate became increasingly nauseating even to look at, and she finally finished off her wine. As soon as she'd drained it, she half-heartedly wished Blakeney would offer to pour her another glass. Her eyes continuously glanced towards the door, but no one else entered, and outside, the sound of the storm grew louder and louder, so that by the end of their meal, it was positively howling.

As neither Blakeney nor Andrew seemed to be in a mood to talk any more, Marguerite was hardly surprised that Andrew stiffly asked Blakeney to accompany them back to the inn so they could get a good night's sleep, and Blakeney readily agreed.

She couldn't imagine a more random assortment of people imaginable – Sir Percival Blakeney, Idiot; Andrew Ffoukles, budding actor; the famous Marguerite St. Just; the evil Armand Chauvelin, Former Nazi Spy. It made her brain hurt to even think about how strange the situation was – even the physical sting of the whipping snow and ice outside did little to take her mind off of the situation. It wasn't until she was upstairs in the inn did she realize she had not seen Chauvelin downstairs by the fire, nor anywhere else. Blakeney and Andrew were bidding her good night, and adding that she should come for them if she needed them for any reason.

Without warning, she suddenly discovered she was alone in her small room, with the sound of the wind howling around the window, obscuring it with heavy flakes so that she couldn't even see the restaurant across the square. She shivered and turned to the bed. She needed sleep, and didn't much expect to get much tonight – there was too much on her mind and the wind was too loud.

But no sooner had she turned the blankets back and reached to unfasten her suitcase did a hand clamp over her mouth, muffling what would have been a scream.

Someone had been in the room with her, in the shadows, and she hadn't noticed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Goodness, but I was at a total block with this end of this chapter and how to keep it going. To those of you who reviewed the last chapter, thank you! Because your reviews, I made myself write it. This was a hard chapter to finish, and I hope it won't be too dull to read! I still feel completely at a loss with this story because I haven't plotted it out (I'm making it up as I go, which is _completely_ against my norm), so I'm quite nervous at disappointing my regulars! Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I really enjoying reading your thoughts each time!

~BD

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><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

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><p>When Marguerite came to, it was with a groggy sense of dread. The room was dark, but behind her closed eyelids she knew there was a candle or a lantern somewhere nearby. Distantly, she could hear the wind howling outside. That clearly meant she was still in the mountains, still in this vicious snowstorm. It was chilly in the room, and she wasn't wearing her coat. Beneath her temple, she could feel the cold wooden floor, and her hands were bound behind her back.<p>

Unbidden, a couple of tears slipped out and down her cheeks. She had been captured; presumably by Chauvelin or one of his henchmen, for she couldn't imagine why anyone else would capture her. She had finally reached the end of a long, dreary, horrible road, it seemed.

Slowly, she cracked open one eye. The room was blurry and dark. A candle flickered on a table, set against the opposite wall. She couldn't make anything else out, but she seemed to be alone.

On the other hand, she thought bitterly, she _thought_ she had been alone in her room at the inn, and she obviously hadn't been.

She sighed imperceptibly and closed her eyes to block the tiny, dull light. She had never met those four families, and yet they haunted her constantly. She had only heard of them from a friend who wanted to help them, and thought Marguerite might hold some sway on government officials. And she had truly thought Chauvelin was working for the French government when she passed along the information. She wondered, sadly, if any members of those families had survived the war, the concentration camps, the gas chambers, and the Nazi death marches. She would have traded places with any of them, for they had each other before she had unwittingly sentenced them to death, and she'd had no one once Armand had vanished. It would have been better if she _had_ gone in their place, she thought angrily. Then she wouldn't be _here_, in this lonely, cold, wretched hovel, high in the mountains, where no one could save her or help her, where she would finally meet her end. She remembered the nuns at the Catholic school when she was a little girl, and she hoped that when she met God, he would forgive her for what she had done unknowingly back during the war.

A soft, low groan startled Marguerite. She turned her head too quickly to find the source, and she winced. She had a terrible bump on the back of her head and it was throbbing fiercely. Blearily, through the pain, she made out another dark shape near her. It shifted slightly and whispered her name.

A distant part of her brain recognized Andrew's voice, hoarse and raw as it was. She felt like crying – another innocent death would now be at her hands. Andrew knew nothing of her past life and there had been no reason for him to die just because she had made mistakes. But it seemed fate was more cruel than that; another person's blood would end up on her hands before it was all over. She wondered if he could escape this prison, and the desire to help him goaded her into struggling to sit up. She curled her legs under her and twisted towards him.

"Andrew," she whispered, edging closer to him. "Are you bound? Can you sit up?"

"Yes. To both," was the ragged response. It took a couple of tries, but he managed to sit up and edge closer to her, until their shoulders were touching.

She squeezed her eyes shut and trying to piece together what had happened. "I don't remember anything. Except that I was about to turn the quilts down for the night when someone attacked me..."

"You knocked something over. It was loud enough that I heard it, and I came back to your room to see if something was wrong. A man had just stepped into the hall, half-holding you on his arm. You were unconscious, so I assumed he had knocked you out. Others must have been nearby because I have a terrible knot on my head and I don't remember anything else myself."

A couple of tears slid down her cheeks and she turned her face into Andrew's shoulder. "I am so sorry," she moaned. "This is _my_ fault."

Andrew said nothing, and Marguerite wondered why he did not ask her for more information. Or at least tell her that surely it was _not_ her fault. But he remained silent.

"If we twist our backs to each other," she continued quietly, trying to ignore his ominous silence, "I can try to untie your hands. Then you must get out of here, and quickly, without being seen."

Andrew seemed startled at this idea. "Absolutely not. I cannot leave you, mademoiselle."

"You must," she insisted firmly, yet still speaking in a whisper. Her tears had stopped now. It was clear what she had to do. She had to free Andrew so he could escape. "It is me they want. Not you."

A wry smile tugged Andrew's lips. "I think they want both of us. Otherwise, we would not both be here."

"You are correct," a new voice interrupted.

Marguerite jumped violently and drew her legs to her chest, as though this might protect her from harm. A door had snapped closed beyond of her line of vision, and Chauvelin came into the room, not at all in a hurry. He made his way to the table and deposited some papers, then turned to face both of them.

"I wanted both of you, not just St. Just. Otherwise, you would not both be here."

"Andrew has nothing to do with what is between you and I," Marguerite answered vehemently. "Let him leave here safely! It is me you are after, and we both know it."

Chauvelin's face remained impassive. "There is so much you _do not_ know," he stated, crossing his arms over his chest. "For instance, you _do not_ know who Andrew Ffoulkes _really_ is."

Marguerite paused. This single statement was enough to cause a few sticky spider webs of doubt to flit through her mind, but it was best not to let Chauvelin notice any sudden, confused doubts. Instead, she responded staunchly, "He is a fellow actor and my co-star for our current film."

Beside her, she noted that Andrew was motionless, perfectly still but alert. Rather than mull over the idea that Andrew might be some sort of villain in this game, Marguerite shifted her eyes back towards Chauvelin.

In the candlelight, he looked much older than she remembered. When he had visited her salon in Paris before the war, he had been in his forties, his hair a dark brown with a few strands of gray. But he had always been a short, slender man with a fox-like face and piercing eyes. Marguerite had met him through several mutual friends – back then, he had been a detective for the gendarmerie, but at some point prior, he had worked once upon a time as, first, a secondary school teacher, and then, just after the Great War, a paralegal for a prosecuting attorney, just for a couple of years. He was an educated man, though she was certain most of it had been self-taught. Chauvelin was not one to allow circumstance to guide his life; if he could change fate, he would do so. In the 1930s, she had thought the trait admirable and interesting, for she felt she had been doing the exact same thing.

Now, she thought he was unspeakably dangerous.

"I see your co-star does not speak when off set." Chauvelin's lips twitched into what would have been a smile at his little jest, but he mastered the impulse.

"I am certain I don't know what you mean," Andrew finally said, his voice utterly polite and courteous. "I am an actor, sir. Before that, I did vaudeville, which was still acting..."

"And during the war?" Chauvelin mused, cutting Andrew off.

"I assisted the English army."

Marguerite realized that she had not known what Andrew did during the second war. She further realized, to her astonishment, that she had never once asked Andrew what he had done _before_ the war, either. Perhaps it was simply because she didn't want him asking questions about the skeletons in her own closet, but she really knew very little about him, it seemed.

"You assisted the English army? Or perhaps you assisted _another_ master?" Chauvelin was calm, almost too calm, and Marguerite shuddered.

"I was not a double agent, if that is what you are implying," Andrew responded coldly.

"We both know that is _not_ what I am implying."

"Well, I, for one, am afraid that I _don't_ know what you are implying."

"A couple of months ago, Madame St. Just was unable to inform me of the Scarlet Pimpernel's true identity," Chauvelin went on, as though Andrew had not argued the point. He turned towards the table and reshuffled the papers. "I was astounded that she did not know, to be honest. The wittiest, most adored woman in all of France, with scores of people at her feet to do her bidding! How _could_ she not know? Especially filming this ridiculous film about him. I would have thought mere curiosity would have set her to investigate further, until she discovered his real name. But apparently not."

Marguerite interrupted, scowling at him. "You are not as brilliant as you once were, monsieur. I have no interest in the man's identity."

That was true enough, she thought bitterly. Oh yes, once, she had been interested. The entire world had been interested! But the war had been long and draining, and her interest had faded after she'd fled to Switzerland to avoid capture by the Allies. And since filming on _The Invisible Savior_ had begun, Marguerite had only vaguely wondered who the man really was. Curiosity was a nasty beast, and it had a way of turning on you and biting you when you least expected, just like any beast. Sometimes it was best to let an enigma remain just that.

"None at all?" Chauvelin looked surprised, mocking. His lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. "Monsieur Ffoulkes knows of his identity. Did you know that, Madame St. Just?"

Marguerite paused, thinking back. Yes... Actually, she _did_ know that, though she had nearly forgotten. At the Cannes Film Festival, back in September, when she'd first been introduced to Andrew, he _had_ made the comment to her that he and Hastings _both_ know the person behind the mask, the man who called himself The Scarlet Pimpernel. Andrew said the mysterious man was nothing as to what most people expected.

"As a matter of fact," she answered haughtily, trying not to sound surprised, "I _did_ know that."

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Andrew's brow wrinkle slightly in thought, but she ignored him for the moment.

"Did you also know," Chauvelin pressed, "That Monsieur Ffoulkes himself is a member of that League? His real master, mademoiselle, is the very man I am seeking."

Marguerite felt her breath catch in her chest, as though someone had just punched her. Andrew, a member of the League of men who had saved so many from the Nazis? Anything was possible, but God help her, if it was true, than he very likely _did_ know about her past – he would have known the entire time of their acquaintance that Marguerite had sent four families to Drancy with her idle tongue, and that Chauvelin had been a double agent himself. What on earth must Andrew _really_ think of her? He likely hated her! But if that were the case, why had he agreed to sign the movie deal, playing opposite of her? None of it made any sense to her overwrought mind, and she blurted out angrily, "Impossible. If he were really a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, he would not be playing opposite _me_ in any film, let alone one about such a brilliant, admired man!"

"Ah yes, we come around to the film in question. Monsieur," Chauvelin sneered, "how _is_ it that you landed the role?"

"Director Fontbleu saw a screen test –" Andrew began, but Chauvelin cut him off.

"Fontbleu was set up, do not pretend otherwise! The Pimpernel himself arranged the entire thing!"

"You are raving!" Marguerite broke in furiously. "If that were the case, the Pimpernel would never have allowed _me_ to play the lead! Andrew," she added, turning to look at him finally, because by _God_, she had to tell him so he would _understand_, "Chauvelin wants me dead because I alone know the truth about him. He was a double agent –"

"Enough!" Chauvelin barked. He stepped forward faster than she could have imagined, his hand raised to hit her.

Marguerite flinched at this, but went on, "And because I unintentionally passed along information to him –"

His hand struck her face, causing a harsh, stinging sensation on her cheek. Beside her, Andrew shifted immediately, but Chauvelin kicked out at him as well, preventing him from assisting her in any way.

"I said _enough_!" he snarled.

He was speaking through gritted teeth, Marguerite could tell. The labored breathing, the hissing intake of air through his lips... it was evident that he was angry, but it had been worth it to push his buttons enough to make him reach such a point. Chauvelin was almost never visibly affected by anything, and it gave her a perverse pleasure to see him so out of control of his emotions.

"Back to the conversation at hand! You made the suggestion, Madame St. Just, that the Scarlet Pimpernel would never place you in a lead role if he were indeed choreographing the entire production," Chauvelin went on. His voice was still strained, though slightly calmer. "Do not ask me to fathom the way the man's mind works. But if he insisted on you, it must have been for a reason, and I _will_ get to the bottom of it."

"Good God, man!" Andrew looked incredulous. "Have you nothing better to do than get involved in a film production?"

"Tell me, Monsieur Ffoulkes, why _did_ the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel wish Marguerite St. Just to play the lead in his film? He knows she sent four families to Drancy, I believe."

"Blast if I know why he chose her," Andrew answered, abandoning any pretense in his annoyance. "He certainly doesn't tell us everything, for the very reason that if we were caught, just like right now, we wouldn't have the information to pass along to someone like _you_."

Chauvelin was quiet for a moment. Marguerite could not decipher his expression, for his face was half in shadow. At last he said, "I'll give the two of you some time to think, and consider your perilous position. I want the Scarlet Pimpernel. His identity, whereabouts, and reasons for his current mission - those will be the prices of your freedom."

With that, he swept out of the door, banging it shut.

Marguerite squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry.

After a few moments, Andrew spoke. His voice was hollow and quiet, but firm. "Marguerite. You need to know that I _will not_ give up his identity, even at the cost of my own life. Nor can I reveal it to you. I would die before telling anyone who he is, without his permission. He is the bravest man in the world, and I owe him that much."

She nodded, a few tears slipping past her lashes despite her attempts to remain calm, staining her cheeks and chin. With her hands tied behind her back, she could not wipe the salty tracks away. Instead, she murmured, "I would not want you to tell me." Then she added bitterly, "I am not to be trusted."

"I have never said _that_." Andrew's response was stiff.

"No," she conceded, "but if you are indeed a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel... if you saved innocents from death during the war... then you have known what I did for a long time now, and you have never trusted me. I wonder how you have even managed to work with me all this time, knowing what I did during the war. You must despise me."

He was silent at that, and Marguerite knew she had hit upon the truth. That saddened her almost as much as everything else did; she wondered how many others despised her but did not voice their opinions aloud, because of who she was - a famous actress.

Unable to stand the silence, she went on (mostly to herself) "What I _don't_ understand is why on earth such a man _would_ demand I play the lead role in a film about his exploits. He knows who I am, doesn't he? So it simply doesn't make any sense. Perhaps that is the only thing I wish to know in all of this. Is it some sort of perverse jest? Is he mocking me? I never thought him that sort of person during the war. But Suzanne would have been a better choice for this role, not me. She never did anything as horrible as what I did."

She didn't think Andrew would answer, but after several long moments, he finally said, in a halting manner, "He... he does know what you did. But he also knew you were innocent."

"Did he?" She laughed quietly, humorlessly at this. "And how would he know that I am innocent?"

"You said so yourself," Andrew reminded her. "When you were provoking Chauvelin. You said it was unintentional. You did not know Chauvelin was a double agent when you told him about those four families."

She heaved a sigh, feeling much too old, and leaned against the cold wall behind her. "No, you are right. I thought he was working for France. He had been a friend of mine before the war, one who often came to my parties and my salon. And so, when the war began, I never once suspected that he might be a double agent for Germany. I was horrified when I found out that he had revealed the location of the farmhouse in question to the Nazis. If I could have taken their place... if I could have gone instead of them..." She felt more tears slid down her face; admitting it to herself was one thing – admitting it to Andrew was entirely another. "_I_ should have died, not them."

"You don't know that they died," Andrew said gently.

"The law of statistics was most certainly _not_ in their favor. I would be _shocked_ if any were alive."

"Still. You don't know that they all died."

She whispered, "Oh God, Andrew. How I have hated myself since I learned that Chauvelin tricked me, that he turned them over to the Nazis. You cannot imagine how I have felt."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel never hated you. As I said – he knew you were innocent. And that's why..." Andrew stopped, as though thinking better of what he was saying, but to Marguerite's surprise, he plunged on. "He's hopelessly in love with you, actually. Git would never admit it to you, or to any of us, but he is."

Marguerite was unfazed by this revelation; even a bit let down. Men were always in love with her, it was nothing new or special or even romantic anymore. She would have thought that such a brilliant man as the Scarlet Pimpernel, who had saved hundreds (if not thousands) of people, would have been more intelligent than to fall in love with a superficial face on a poster or a beautiful female lead in a film, acting out a part.

She said, "He is in love with an actress, not me. He doesn't know _me_. He doesn't know little Margot, the orphan girl who struggled to survive through childhood without starving. He doesn't know how much I missed my brother when Armand went missing. He doesn't know how much I wish I weren't constantly in the spotlight. He doesn't know that I like long walks in the country or a quiet house, without people laughing and being fake."

She couldn't see Andrew's face in the dark, but his words sounded as though he were smiling. "He knows you more than you think he does. And he's never even seen one of your films, actually."

"No man would ever love me if they knew my hands were stained with innocent blood."

"I think," Andrew mused, sliding closer to her to comfort her, "that you should forgive yourself. Others forgive easier than we forgive ourselves. I hold nothing against you, and neither does the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"I will _never_ forgive myself. _Never_." She began to cry in earnest, and she leaned her head on Andrew's shoulder, desperate as she was for _any_ support. "I killed four families, Andrew! I sent four families to a concentration camp! Could you forgive _yourself_ if you had done such a thing?"

She was not surprised when he didn't answer that question. Because she knew he could not have forgiven himself anymore than she could forgive herself.

* * *

><p>When Chauvelin returned fifteen minutes later, it was to find that neither prisoner was in any mood to reveal their knowledge any more than they had been before, and that infuriated him. While he knew the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, dragging it out of Andrew at least would have been a sadistic pleasure; besides, he needed to find out exactly what Blakeney was up to in the French Alps at the same time he was here. Presumably it was to protect Marguerite, since she was the lead actress in that ridiculous film, but what was the ulterior motive? Surely the man had one. He always did.<p>

Watching Marguerite suffer through the interrogation was only an added bonus. He did not strike her again, though it had given him satisfaction to do so earlier.

Neither of them would be set free – that much was absolutely certain.

He decided to let them wait a bit longer. The room was cold, the storm was not abating, and he had plenty of time to let them decide if they wished to speak or not. Hours, really.

As Marguerite glared furiously at him, he smirked at her and carelessly summoned a man into the room – a former German soldier by name of Dietrich Giselbert.

Chauvelin had discovered the man only a few days previously, but he was a great find. He was young, blond man who had apparently moved to the French Alps after the war and now herded sheep for a living. Battle on the front lines had hardened the lad, who couldn't have been more than 18 when he'd entered the war in 1944 as an infantry soldier. The coldness showed clearly in his face and blue eyes – he had not forgiven the world for Germany's loss. Chauvelin had just happened to overhear him cursing in a local pub a week earlier, and upon seeing a small tattoo of a Nazi symbol on the man's wrist, he'd asked if the man needed work for a few days.

Dietrich had readily agreed. The barman had admitted that he'd never seen the lad before, but that there were sheepherders in the mountains that rarely came down, of course. Chauvelin had drilled Dietrich mercilessly, but the German had answered all of his questions satisfactorily. Now, he would be put to use guarding the two prisoners, and to Chauvelin's relief, Dietrich seemed quite delighted at the chance to exercise his beliefs once more, even if only for a short time.

"Make certain they do not escape," Chauvelin stated coolly, when the younger man entered at his bidding. "I will return in an hour to determine if they wish to reveal any of their knowledge."

"May I do as I please with them?" A weird light flickered in the German's icy eyes as he glanced towards Marguerite, who stiffened visibly under his harsh gaze.

"As you wish," he shrugged. He really could care less what happened to Marguerite. Once, he might have thought her beautiful. Now, she was just a liability.

Marguerite stifled a gasp and looked positively horrified; Andrew Ffoulkes tensed and pushed up to his knees in an effort to protect her. It was futile – Herr Giselbert kicked at him with heavy boots and Andrew fell backwards, striking his head on the wooden wall and toppling like a ragdoll to the floor, unconscious.

It was all Chauvelin could do not to laugh at how easily Andrew had been knocked out. Mastering himself, he added, "I need them alive, Herr Giselbert. Remember that, please. You will not earn a Mark or a Franc if you kill either, _or_ render them unable to answer my questions."

The blond man grunted. "Ja." He kept his eyes on Marguerite, who now looked utterly petrified.

Chauvelin closed the door behind him and headed down the corridor to another room – one with a fire and some food, for it was nearly freezing in the room that Marguerite and Andrew were cloistered in. As he entered, a couple of other German men who were waiting on him to return, quickly moved to set his dinner upon the table.

"Danke, Herr Heinrich, Herr Traugott." He settled himself at the table as the two men, both on loan from one of the Nazi supporters who had attended his dinner on a month earlier, moved to stand by the door as guards.

Without warning, a woman's scream echoed through the little shack in the mountains. Chauvelin did not flinch, but merely picked up his knife to cut his steak. How many times had he heard the screams of different people being tortured for information? Too many to count, really. It was nothing new, nothing interesting.

Calmly, he said, "Herr Traugott, if you would shut the door, please?"

"Of course, Monsieur Chauvelin," the man replied brusquely.

The door closed with a light snap, and the screams for mercy became faint and muffled, though not entirely drowned out by the wind and thin walls.

Chauvelin stabbed at a piece of steak with a small smile; behind him, Herr Heinrich murmured to his companion, "Herr Giselbert is a true German patriot, is he not?"

Chauvelin could not help but agree. It seemed luck was moving in his direction after all, and his recent find was proving extremely efficient. And damn Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet, to hell – the man would not reach this place in time to save either Marguerite or Andrew Ffoulkes from death, just as he had not saved those Jewish families Marguerite had sentenced to death, either.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note****:** This chapter is mostly dialogue, and by the end I was nearly as confused as Marguerite. To answer the questions posed in reviews on Chapter 5: I plead the fifth. It's more fun to watch people guess. I know, I'm evil.

**Spoiler Alert:** To those not familiar with the sequel novel _Sir Percy Hits Back_, there are spoilers for that novel in this chapter, so if you haven't read the novel...you really should. The characters of Fleurette and Amédé are from that novel and do not belong to me.

As always, thank you to those reading/reviewing/favoriting/etc. You guys always make my day!

~BD

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><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

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><p>The screaming stopped within a minute or so, though Chauvelin was only dimly aware of it. Instead, he focused solely on enjoying his meal and the warmth of the fire. The only reason he even realized that Marguerite had ceased to scream was simply because the quiet gradually pressed upon his ears, punctuated only by the logs crackling as the fire twisted and ate them away, and the wind whistling around the corners of the structure.<p>

Eventually, after almost an hour, he arose from his chair, ordered the two men to clean the dishes and tend the fire, and he returned down the narrow hall to the back room of the cabin.

However, he was not prepared for what he saw when he opened the door.

The room was half full of _snow_, for the window was wide open! Herr Giselbert was lying upon the floor, prone and still, with a nasty cut across his forehead, and the two prisoners were nowhere to be seen!

For a moment, Chauvelin felt ice-cold to the very tips of his fingers, and not remotely because of the weather. Then, fury rose within him so quickly that he it was a wonder he didn't combust. He stormed over to Herr Giselbert's body, giving it a swift kick in the shins and yelling for the man to wake up.

Giselbert groaned and began to come to, but Chauvelin was too impatient to wait. He grabbed the German's shoulder and shook him roughly.

"Where are they?" he practically yelled. "What has happened?"

But Herr Giselbert was not quite conscious yet. Chauvelin was about to physically strike him when the other two men in his employment came running into the room. They had obviously heard the shouts and hurried to investigate. One of them swore violently at the scene; the other quickly stepped over Herr Giselbert and closed the window. The snow stopped blowing in and howl of the wind became somewhat muffled, and Chauvelin could hear himself thinking again, albeit said thoughts were so fast and angry that he could hardly make sense of them.

After a couple of moments, Herr Giselbert coughed and pushed to his knees, clearly attempting to respond to the accusation in Chauvelin's steely glare. "Several men," he choked out with fury, wiping blood from his face with his hand. "They burst into the window! One struck me before I could stop him! The woman was unconscious, I was waiting for her to come to again so I could continue..."

Chauvelin was at the window in a second, his eyes scanning the dark, snow-covered scene before him. It was nearly pitch-black, and the snow was blowing terribly.

"There still may be tracks," he ordered sharply, turning to the three men behind him. "Beneath the trees where the wind isn't as bad. _Get going_!"

It was an hollow hope, he knew, but damn it, he would try!

Herr Heinrich and Herr Traugott immediately ran out of the room to obey, while Herr Giselbert struggled to his feet.

It was then that Chauvelin noticed a piece of paper on the table, held down with a heavy, jagged rock – likely the one that had been used to incapacitate Giselbert. Chauvelin snatched the paper up, a strange feeling of déjà vu coursing through his veins. The words were written in English, jagged and distorted as Blakeney usually wrote when he was pretending to be a bloody hero, so that no one would guess his handwriting.

_It was a good try, man. But not good enough._

* * *

><p>Distantly, Marguerite could hear voices, perhaps in a different room, but her head throbbed and she was more content to lie, burrowed and snug, beneath the heavy, warm quilts that surrounded her. The bed itself was comfortable and soft, the mattress stuffed with goose feathers it seemed, and she sank deeper into its embrace.<p>

The nearby voices were French. It was just as comforting to hear her native language, as it was to snuggle into a bed. She hadn't heard good, rich French voices in so long. On the movie sets, people were always speaking in a mix of both French and English. And around Andrew, Marguerite tended to lapse into English more often than not, for while Andrew knew a good bit of French, he'd never struck Marguerite as being fluent in the language.

These voices she was currently (though only vaguely) listening to weren't Parisian, though. One man's voice was young and his dialect was a bit rough, yet sturdy and steady; the young woman's was musical and lilting, but with a hint of the Southern countryside in it. Aix en Provence, maybe? There seemed to be another male voice or two, but their accents were indistinguishable. Marguerite furrowed her brow slightly. Odd. She didn't recognize any of the voices, but the two men who spoke so nondescriptly had a secondary accent when she actually focused a bit – English.

"...will get himself killed," the woman was saying, her tone one of deepest worry. "My father does not suffer such lightly."

"My biggest concern is that your _father_ might get killed," replied one of the Englishmen, though in French.

The woman seemed completely unconcerned about her father's state of affairs. "He made his choices, and I made mine. We parted ways a very long time ago, and I have no desire to ever see him again or call him _father_. The Scarlet Pimpernel and I have discussed that, Monsieur Dewhurst. Please do not worry about me. I only desire to help the League, just as I did during the war."

"No one's going to die," said the second Englishman, slightly exasperated. "The chief doesn't work that way. If he didn't kill back then, he won't do it now."

"I think you're wrong," said the man named Dewhurst, his voice dark and worried. "As long as the man lives, there will be no peace for any of us. Forgive me, Mademoiselle, for I know he is your father, but still..."

The second man drawled, "Getting tired of running all over Europe, Tony?"

"Hardly," snorted the first. "Sod off, Denys."

"Well," the second went on, "I'll admit, this was a lot easier when we were in our twenties."

"You might tell that to the chief. See what he has to say about the subject of your getting too old."

"Egads. I wouldn't want to see his look of disappointment. Don't you breathe a word to him, do you hear me, Tony?"

"I can barely hear you at all, what with all the wind outside."

The woman laughed, sweet and child-like. "Enough, monsieurs! You are always jesting around! You have your orders, do you not?"

"As always. He'll be here soon. And be careful, little one."

"Please tell your wife I asked of her, Monsieur Dewhurst. I do miss her."

"As soon as this blows over, I intend to bring her over for a visit. She misses you, and Lord knows she misses France sometimes!"

Someone opened a door to the outside and the voices were lost to the storm; Marguerite buried herself deeper within the bedding and winced at the thought of the cold. The door banged shut again and silence pressed upon her ears; she relaxed slightly and slowly opened her eyes.

The cozy, small room was neat and clean, lit by a cheery fire in a little square hearth, and had heavy curtains over the one tiny window. A couple of oil lamps were set on the narrow mantel, and one on a nearby dresser. The quilts covering Marguerite were soft and thick, with a lovely homespun quality, and the sheets were clean and smelled of lavender. It was so different from the life of luxury that she currently lived, but somehow, she liked it much better.

She slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position and discovered someone had changed her clothes; instead of her gray wool dress, she now wore a flannel nightgown and thick socks on her feet. Though comfortable, she felt disconnected and far away, as though perhaps she were dreaming. The last thing she remembered was too horrifying to think about, and it certainly wasn't this warm room.

The door suddenly opened and a young woman entered. Marguerite jolted in surprise and drew the blankets up close to her chest, but the girl did not look threatening. Her hair was buttery yellow and she was quite petite and lovely, with large blue eyes, and slender like a willow.

She immediately came to the bedside, smiling in relief. "Oh! You're awake! I'm so glad. I was so very worried when Monsieur Dewhurst and Monsieur Denys brought you here. You were pale as death." She placed a cool hand on Marguerite's forehead, feeling for fever.

"Where am I?" Marguerite whispered, her throat hoarse and raw.

"The French Alps, ma'am." The girl withdrew her hand, and turned instead to stoke the fire. "Near the Swiss border. This cabin belongs to a friend of my husband's. He is gracious to allow us to use it when we wish."

"Who are you?"

"Fleurette Columbe, ma'am."

None of this was making any sense to Marguerite, and she closed her eyes briefly as the fire flared and grew warmer. "How did I get here?"

"The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel brought you here," Fleurette replied, replacing the poker and coming to sit at the end of the bed. "The cabin belongs to the man himself, actually. And my husband and I are also members of the League. During the war, it was our task to keep refugees and Jews safe until the League could move them into Switzerland, so we moved from our home in the south of France to here, in order to do so. I'm afraid we haven't had much to do with the League since the war ended, but occasionally the Pimpernel steps in to rescue someone who is still pursued by former Nazis. It's dreadfully cold up here right now. I'm originally from the south, and I'm not accustomed to this weather." She smiled sheepishly at Marguerite.

Marguerite thought for a moment, then said, "But I don't understand. I was being tortured –" She shuddered at the memory; she didn't want to think about what Herr Giselbert was doing when she'd blacked out from sheer terror.

"You lost consciousness, fortunately," Fleurette explained. "Or so Monsieur Dewhurst told us. But you are safe now. And my husband and I will watch over you until you can be moved to a safer location."

"Where will that be?" Marguerite asked hollowly.

"I'm not sure. The Scarlet Pimpernel indicated he was going to move you himself. Perhaps to England? That is where he is from. I assume he will take you through Switzerland."

"How long have I been unconscious?"

Fleurette shook her head. "I'm not positive, but about eight hours? You needed the rest, I think. You looked terribly ill when they brought you here."

Marguerite chose not to respond to that, but instead asked, "What happened to Andrew?"

"He was taken to another safe location. The League thought it best if the two of you were separated."

Marguerite nodded. That was understandable, but she hated to be away from Andrew. Regardless of what he thought of her, he had been more of a friend in the past twelve hours than anyone else had been to her in the past twelve years.

"Is he safe?" The last thing she remembered, he had been unconscious on the floor, after that German devil had hit him.

"I think so. Monsieur Denys said he was."

Her next words tasted like ash in her mouth, but she forced herself to ask, "And Chauvelin? What of him?"

An odd, closed expression came over the girl's face. "I've no idea, ma'am. Sometimes I wonder why he is still alive, but then again, he was always quite gifted at slithering out of tight spots."

"Yes, I remember," Marguerite murmured.

The girl Fleurette was silent for a moment; then she roused herself, smiled apologetically, and said, "I changed your clothes earlier – the ones you had on were soaked from the snow, and they were positively frozen! I didn't want you to catch your death. I'll bring you a fresh change. If you'll excuse me." With that, she disappeared out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Marguerite still felt drained and confused. _So much for being the sharpest mind in Europe_, she thought ruefully. Absolutely nothing made sense to her, except why Chauvelin had taken her in the first place. She didn't believe for one moment that he would have allowed her to walk free, even _if_ she had known the Scarlet Pimpernel's identity.

Two days ago, she would have insisted that Chauvelin was not to be trusted. However, if what he said was true, she was even more confused than she'd been before he'd captured her. Was the Scarlet Pimpernel truly the one behind the movie she was starring in? Well, that much must have been true – Fontbleu himself had told her in Cannes that the Scarlet Pimpernel had sanctioned the script. But the fact that he wanted to cast Marguerite in the first place was asinine. He knew what she had done. If Andrew were to be believed, no one in the League placed blame upon her, but understood that Chauvelin was the real villain, and the Scarlet Pimpernel harbored some hidden affection for her.

Well, she had not lied to Andrew, she thought bitterly, as she crawled out of bed and padded over to the fire, where it would be much warmer to undress and change. Men were always 'in love' with her. Fan letters wound their way to her, from males aged twelve to ninety, gushing over her beauty and her witty sallies that made their way into magazines, her cool persona upon the screen, her lavish gowns at parties and award ceremonies, and her sultry expressions on publicity photographs. She was tired of it. She was tired of the false love these men nursed, because people didn't know _her_. They only knew that which she portrayed, which she _acted_. She would never be able to love, because no one knew _her_, and she could never be with someone who believed in the lie of film.

The door opened again and Fleurette reentered the room, carrying a stack of folded clothing.

"I hope these fit," she said nervously, placing the clothing on a stool by the fire. "Your dress and shoes are still drying, I'm afraid. But your stockings are dry, and I've put them on top."

"Thank you," Marguerite replied kindly, giving the girl a wan smile and lifting a simple, plaid dress from the neat pile. "This will be just fine, I'm certain."

"I'll be right outside if you need me."

When Fleurette had left her alone again, Marguerite stripped out of the flannel nightgown and slipped the dress over her head, buttoned it up, and reached for the wool stockings. She had just sat down on the stool to pull them on when she heard the door of the cottage open and close again.

Fleurette cried out and her footsteps echoed across the main room, and a man's voice spoke boldly and cheerfully in French.

"Salut, chéri!"

"_Mon Dieu_! You're hurt!" Fleurette sounded horrified. "Amédé! Bring some bandages! Quickly!"

Marguerite listened intently as more footsteps echoed in the cottage, while she tugged at the stockings.

"No, no, it's quite alright. It's only a superficial cut. Had to do it myself, I'm afraid. Tony refused, you know." The man laughed, a strong, deep laugh that sent odd shivers up Marguerite's back. She quickly stood up and went to a small mirror on the wall to brush her hair back and retie it with a ribbon Fleurette had supplied.

"Do not jest," Fleurette pleaded. "Tony would never hurt you if he could help it! Come sit and eat. Madame St. Just only just awoke. She's getting dressed, and Amédé will bring the bandages so I can tend to the cut –"

"No, you mustn't, and I can't stay. I only came by to warn you –"

Marguerite's curiosity got the better of her. She tightened the ribbon, then strode to the door and threw it open, determined to see what the Scarlet Pimpernel actually looked like, to find out whom he really was. She had told Chauvelin the truth – she _hadn't_ been interested in who the man was, before. But things had changed in the past few hours. She was currently in a lot of danger, her life was on the line, and this unknown man was pulling all the strings. Damn it all, she _was_ going to find out his identity!

But to her utter shock, the man standing in the warm main room of the cottage was _not_ the Scarlet Pimpernel.

It was that awful villain, Herr Giselbert – the very man who had threatened to do all manner of horrible things to her! The very last thing she remembered was him reaching for the buttons on her dress at her breasts; she had screamed and kicked and flailed to no avail – he had succeeded in ripping half her dress from her body before the whirling storm and her own terrified thoughts caught up with her and she had mercifully blacked out. But God only knew what he had _really_ done to her, and she had been trying to block those ideas since she had awoken in this cottage to Fleurette's kindness. Now, the memory returned to her full force. Had he raped her? That had been his intent, to make her talk, to force her to give Chauvelin what he wanted, and he would have done anything to achieve that goal…!

Marguerite just did manage to press her palm to her mouth to keep from screaming, but it was only barely. She tried to turn back to the bedroom, to flee, but Fleurette had already seen her and rushed to her side, grabbed her arms, and forced Marguerite to look into her eyes.

"Non, chéri! It's perfectly safe!"

"No, no it isn't," Marguerite was blathering, and she knew it, but she couldn't help it. "He's... he's..."

The man inclined his head awkwardly to her, at complete odds to how he had behaved earlier, and said, "I am so terribly sorry to have upset you, Madame. I do apologize."

Marguerite could only stare at him in horror, before she finally found her voice and sputtered, "_You_! How _dare_ you! You tried to rape me...! You were going to... I know you were...!" She had to escape; she had to get away from him. Fleurette had no idea who this man was, what he was really doing, who he was working for, and at that idea, Marguerite grabbed her young hostess's arm and blurted out, "_He's working for Chauvelin_!"

"No, he isn't," Fleurette insisted gently. "Monsieur Giselbert is a member of the League."

The very idea was absolutely absurd. "If that were true," Marguerite snapped, trying to rein in her terror, "then he wouldn't have tried to have his way with me! I saw the way he looked when Chauvelin told him to do as he damned well pleased with me!" As abruptly as her fear had come, it was replaced by sheer anger. Oh, she was going to kill this man, she just knew it! How _dare_ he! She hated him, and she was going to wring his neck with her bare hands if she could get past Fleurette!

"I had to get you unconscious somehow," the man insisted, his tone changing immediately, becoming extremely annoyed and haughty, which only incensed her further. "Chauvelin is determined to kill you because you know too much! The Scarlet Pimpernel is trying to _save_ you, Madame, though," he snorted, sounding utterly nonplussed, "God and Heaven only knows _why_. My orders, from _him_, were to pretend to be Chauvelin's accomplice, to get you unconscious, so we could get you out of that hovel and to safety, here! And if you're so damned determined to believe I'm such a villain, perhaps you should ask Fleurette about her own family! She'd love to tell you about her darling father, wouldn't you, Fleurette?"

Fleurette looked furious at this idea, and turned to face Herr Giselbert again. She even released Marguerite's arms, but Marguerite had been too stunned by the man's perfect French to continue fighting. If she had heard him speak French before German, she would have truly believed he _was_ French. But... he looked Aryan! He even had a horrible swastika tattooed on his wrist! She had seen it earlier when he reached for her, because she remembered being completely revolted.

"That is immaterial, Monsieur," Fleurette said firmly. "Now, are you going to stay and eat something, or are you on your way out again?"

"On my way out," the man snapped, pulling a scarf back around his neck. "Chauvelin believes I'm searching for _her_, and I have to report back to him and lead him away from here! Though, really, I've no idea why the chief is _bothering_ –"

"Speaking of... When _is_ the Pimpernel coming for her?" Fleurette asked, her polite voice starting to sound terse and frustrated.

Giselbert pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to the young girl. "That should explain it," he muttered, fastening his coat buttons again.

Fleurette unfolded the paper and read the missive quickly. After a long moment, she whispered, "And what of you?" Her eyes were still gazing at the paper.

"I'm supposed to disappear into an avalanche," Giselbert groused. "Damned unpleasant, if you ask me. Though not nearly as unpleasant as being around _her_ would be, so I'll welcome the snow."

Marguerite bristled. "_You have some nerve_!" she snarled, stamping her foot in anger. By God, she really _was_ going to wring his neck! "Are you French or German? And what exactly is your real name? For I doubt it is Herr Giselbert or even _Monsieur_ Giselbert!"

Giselbert looked rather taken aback at her fiery questions, but after a moment he said coolly, "I'm _not _German. And I doubt my name is of any importance to _you_; I'm fairly certain you wouldn't believe me regardless. You've already formed a dreadful opinion of me and I suppose I can't really blame you, but it's incredibly annoying. I'm sorry to frighten you so earlier, but it was for your own good, you know. Considering forgiving me, if you actually have a heart." And without further explanation, he ducked back out into the snow.

Marguerite was so surprised and so mad at his words that it took a few seconds before she turned to Fleurette and asked abruptly, "Who _is_ he, exactly? Besides an abombidably unpleasant person?"

Fleurette shrugged, still keen on the piece of paper in her hands. "A member of the League. There are a number of them. Us, I mean." She turned towards the fire.

"Yes, I gathered as much." Marguerite did not like to admit it, but the way the man had looked at her back in that wretched shack was still dancing on the edges of her mind. Chauvelin's betrayal so many years ago had taught her to trust no one, and she certainly didn't trust a man pretending to be a German, especially when he had such an irritating, almighty attitude. She pressed, "But surely he has a name, and surely it isn't German."

"The League don't often give out their real names, and I am not at liberty to say any of their names without permission. Some of them, I don't know at all." Fleurette's voice was apologetic. Turning to the fire, she flicked the scrap of paper into the flames before Marguerite could ask to see it. It curled instantly, disappearing into red and gold and yellow and smoke.

Marguerite suddenly felt a flash of dread, and she sputtered, "He's not _really_ going to die in an avalanche, is he?"

"_Dieu_, I hope not." Fleurette shuddered. "That would be horrid! He is a good man, _really_ – they all act on orders, you see, and –"

Another door onto the main room suddenly opened and a stocky young man entered, looking flushed. He was carrying a small first aid kit. He took one look around the room and then his gaze settled on Fleurette.

"Where is –?"

She cut him off immediately. "He left. Madame St. Just, this is my husband, Amédé. Amédé, this is Marguerite St. Just, the actress."

Amédé flushed. "It is an honor to meet you, Madame."

"I do wish both of you would call me Margot," Marguerite said, feeling exhausted and confused and grouchy again. "I am rather tired of everyone calling me _Madame_ as if I were some old woman!"

"I am sorry," Amédé turned an even deeper shade of red. "Please forgive me."

"It's quite alright. I'm tired and I tend to become irritable when I'm tired. Please forgive _me_."

Fleurette intervened quickly. "It is understandable, you have had a terrible ordeal tonight! Come, sit and have some dinner. And Amédé? Do keep a watch out. The League suggested that Chauvelin is nearby. I don't want any surprises. If he calls here, he will be shocked enough to discover _us_. And I would need time to hide Madame –" She blushed and broke off, then quickly amended, "_Margot_."

Amédé nodded, and pulled a heavy coat off a peg on the wall by the door. "Of course," he said, and disappeared out into the storm.

Marguerite sat down at a small, neatly scrubbed wooden table as Fleurette dished up stew into a bowl, and placed it before her guest, along with some thick bread. She did not eat herself, but she did join Marguerite at the table.

"It will not be long," Fleurette said gently. "And you will be away from here."

"That's just it, I'm afraid. It does not matter much where I go. Chauvelin will always come after me. I know too much about him. He will not rest until I am dead."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel has vowed to protect you. He never fails. Chauvelin is no match for him." Fleurette looked positive at this statement, but Marguerite could not help voicing her concerns.

"Everyone says that, and I know what he did in the war... Rescuing innocents from death, I mean. It was a feat that he was not killed himself! But I cannot help but wonder why on earth he wishes to protect _me_. There are others more worthy and deserving of his protection."

"Oh, is that what you are worried about?" Fleurette laughed softly. "He loves you, of course!"

"Hmm. That's what Andrew said." Marguerite was becoming increasingly frustrated by this little, worthless trinket of information. "But he doesn't know me. He knows only an actress on the screen, a woman in publicity photographs. I could never love a man who is only interested in superficial beauty, and I fear I am not a beautiful person on the inside."

"You are wrong," her pretty hostess responded, smiling brightly at the very conversation. "You are quite beautiful, inside and out. He loves you because you tried to _help_ those four families. He has never even seen one of your films. He told me so, just a few days ago. Your act of bravery in the war turned his head. He's been watching you from afar since then."

Marguerite stared at her. "But I sent those four families to their deaths!"

"You do not know they died."

Those were Andrew's words, too. It was unnerving that Fleurette spoke so much like Andrew. Were the two related? Surely not. Marguerite shook the idea from her mind and plowed on, "They very likely did. So many died... So very many..."

"As I said – the Scarlet Pimpernel was more impressed by the fact that you _tried_ to help, knowing what danger you would be in if you were caught. Danger you now face, in fact. You did not know Chauvelin was a double agent. The Scarlet Pimpernel took the deed at face value."

"But... There were many who helped those less fortunate," Marguerite protested. "Surely any of them were pretty and young. Why would he fall in love with me?"

"That's just the way of things, I suppose. I fell in love with Amédé when we were teenagers. My father was completely against the very idea of us marrying. Between that, and the war, I've become quite estranged from him."

Well, that made Giselbert's words about Fleurette's mysterious father make more sense, but it didn't satisfy Marguerite's confusion as to why the Pimpernel would be in love with her. As she swirled her spoon around her soup, she murmured thoughtfully, "You say he is in love with me. Then why has he not sought me out, to tell me?"

"You are the most popular actress in all of France. Perhaps he isn't certain how to get near you. Perhaps he knows you wouldn't believe him."

"Or perhaps he doesn't trust me."

"Of course he trusts you!"

"I was trying to help four families, but the plan backfired. Maybe," Marguerite said quietly, "The Scarlet Pimpernel doesn't think I can be trusted to know the good men from the bad."

"That is not true," Fleurette insisted, her blue eyes flashing. "Whatever else you believe or don't – I can tell you that m'Lord would trust you with his life."

"I doubt _that_."

"It is easier to forgive others than to forgive ourselves." Fleurette smiled and rose from her seat to refill Marguerite's mug with ale. "Have you ever been in love, Margot?"

"No. I have not." The answer was truthful and immediate.

"Never? Not once?" The younger woman looked thoroughly surprised.

Marguerite thought back, sifting through relationships in her mind. She had never gotten close to anyone; even while Armand had been with her, she had not particularly been attached to anyone. She had been young, Armand had been her protective older brother, and then the war came along and she had ensconced herself in Switzerland, living alone and avoiding people. Even now, she tended to keep her distance emotionally. Losing Armand had been terrible; she did not think she could go through losing someone ever again. She didn't trust people in general, either. None of that made for someone who would be likely to fall head over heels for an alleged Prince Charming. All men had faults, even the perfect ones.

Fleurette now looked pitying. "It is sad to go through life without love. And lonely. My father is like that."

"Who _is_ your father?"

The girl did not answer right away. Instead, she looked quite fearful. After a long moment, she asked hesitatingly, "Will you promise not to hold it against me if I tell you? I am nothing like my father. I would never do what he has done."

"Of course not! You are very kind and good, and I am grateful to you for allowing me stay here. I don't know how I shall ever repay you for your kindness."

Fleurette fell silent, twisting her hands together as she gazed at the fire. But finally, she forced herself to meet Marguerite's eyes.

"My father... is... the very man trying to kill you," she whispered, looking quite terrified at the confession.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:** I must shamefully admit that I've never read _Pimpernel and Rosemary_, nor seen _Pimpernel Smith_. This is a shocking revelation for my wonderful readers, I'm sure. Never fear, however! I _have_ seen both the 1934 version of the _Scarlet Pimpernel_ and the 1986 version and read every other book in the series. he purpose of this confession is to assure everyone that I'm not deliberately trying to copy any movie or book on purpose, so anything similar is mere coincidence, I'm afraid!

Don't even ask how many drafts this chapter went through. In one day. I kamikaze wrote a bulk of it that particular day, tweaking it every 10 minutes or so, but despite that, it really wrote itself. I'm still certain there will be oodles of loose ends by the time I finish this, though. Thoughts (re: reviews) are always appreciated.

~BD

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><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

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><p>Marguerite wasn't certain how much more her overwrought brain could handle. The young woman sitting beside her was beautiful, sweet, and kind; it must have been some cruel jest that her father was Armand Chauvelin.<p>

Yet deep down, Marguerite didn't doubt Fleurette, no matter how much her brain wished to reject the idea. She could only hope and trust that the girl was actually a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, as she claimed, and not secretly working on behalf of her father.

As Marguerite waited for God only knew what to happen next, she thought back to the days before the war, when Chauvelin had visited her salon in Paris. Never had he mentioned that he had been married, or that he had a child. Marguerite had never seen a wedding band on his left hand. Fleurette had explained, briefly, that she had lived with a governess for most of her childhood, as her mother had died in an accident during Fleurette's childhood, and she had only rarely seen her father as she grew up. At the start of the war, Chauvelin had discovered that his only child was helping Jews escape in the south of France, and he had been furious about it. It was then that she discovered her father's true allegiances to Germany, and while he had not arrested her or ever turned her over to the Nazis, the revelation had caused a rift between the two of them that had never been mended. To make matters worse, Chauvelin had never liked Amédé, whom he considered too poor and common for his beautiful little girl, despite the fact that Fleurette and Amédé had been in love since they were teenagers. During 1942, Fleurette had very nearly been captured by the Nazis _without_ her father's knowledge – one of the girls in her village had discovered her secret activities and reported her, and the Scarlet Pimpernel had saved her life. Since then, she had pledged herself to helping him.

The two ladies sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but according to the clock on the wall, only forty-five minutes had dragged by. Marguerite finally rose to her feet and began to pace about, simply for lack of anything better to do, and took to examining objects around the main room of the cottage.

After another ten minutes, the front door banged open and Amédé entered, pale and cold.

"They're coming," he gasped out. "We have but perhaps a minute! I can barely see in this storm, but they are almost here!"

Marguerite froze in terror, but Fleurette was already on her feet and dragging the actress towards the bedroom where she had woken earlier. Once the door was shut, the younger woman threw back a rug on the floor in front of the hearth, and pressed on a certain spot that proved to be a latch. Before Marguerite could question the younger girl, Fleurette had practically forced her down a narrow ladder into the yawning darkness.

"At the bottom and to your left, you will find a torch," Fleurette whispered quickly. "Go to the end of the tunnel, where it branches, and take the right fork. You will soon come to a room on the right side of the tunnel – wait there until someone fetches you. The secret word is _rabbit_. If they do not say that first, you will know they are not a member of the League."

Marguerite had just opened her mouth to argue, or ask what in God's name she was supposed to do if whoever came for her _didn't_ say the word "rabbit", when the trapdoor closed with a quiet snap and she heard the click of the latch. She was now locked in total blackness and she tried desperately not to panic as she fumbled in fear down the rest of the ladder. Her foot touched the earthen floor of a tunnel and she knelt, groped about in the blackness while praying to God that she didn't touch a rat or a spider or something equally horrible. At last her fingers touched cold metal, and she gripped the torch in her shaking hands and pressed the switch. A dazzling, unnatural light filled the tunnel, revealing bare earthen walls. It was low, but she could stand to her full height within it, and she quickly began making her way down the path as Fleurette had indicated she should.

Eventually she came to the fork Fleurette had mentioned. She took the right fork with building trepidation; what if Chauvelin found the trapdoor? What if some strange person whom she'd never met found her down here and didn't give her the secret word? Would she die within this burrow, and no one ever find her?

The tunnel twisted several times before Marguerite found the hollowed out room (if that's what one could call it) in the right side of the tunnel. The tunnel itself extended further onwards and curved at a right degree angle only a few meters ahead. Marguerite swallowed and ducked into the offshoot, fear building in the pit of her stomach. Anyone could approach the room and she would never know it.

Flashing the light about the offshoot, she saw it was a rough shape and there were several blankets on the floor, along with a crate of what turned out to be rations and water. Marguerite settled herself on a couple of blankets and up against the curve of the earth in a corner, then wrapped another blanket about her shivering shoulders before she belatedly thought to turn the torch off, lest the light be seen.

The silence and darkness pressed upon her ears and eyes, eerie and nightmarishly. It was as though she had gone blind. Was she really an actress? Had she ever been at the Cannes Film Festival or in Paris, or anywhere else for that matter? She had tried to save four Jewish families, and now she was being hunted just as they were. Was this what Jews in the war had experienced? This horrible, nagging feeling that, at any second, they would be caught and killed? She choked back a sob. Perhaps she would wake any moment and find it was all just a bad dream... a horrible dream that would melt into nothingless when she came to.

* * *

><p>Someone touched her shoulder, and Marguerite closed her eyes tightly and curled up against herself. It was chilly and the blanket around her smelled musty. She had no idea when she had drifted into an uneasy doze, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes at most. In her state of semi-consciousness, she had been dreaming of her teenaged years.<p>

For a few seconds, the memory lingered. It had been a real event, one that she vaguely remembered in her waking hours but hadn't really thought of in years. With some annoyance, she realized the memory had very likely surfaced only due to her previous conversation with Fleurette, about being in love. Marguerite had told the truth - she had never been in love. But once, she had felt the fluttering start of what _could_ have been love, if allowed to grow.

She had been sixteen years old. Back then, she had been performing regularly in one of Paris's theatres as a singer and comedienne, trying desperately to help Armand make ends meet. It was shortly before she had been discovered by a film director and her real acting career had begun. After one performance at the theatre, in which she had been wearing a low-cut, sparkling red dress that always received a lot of catcalls, she had gone backstage to change for the next act, and she had noticed four young men milling around in stylish suits. Likely they had money and had been invited by the manager to meet some of the performers. One stood out more than the others to Marguerite, because he was taller than the others, and quite attractive. She remembered he had dark gold hair. He had been arguing with the other boys, and she'd only caught a snippet of their conversation:

"..._just want to meet her."_

"_She's younger than you, couldn't you tell that when she was on stage?"_

"_I don't care about that, Tony. She was beautiful."_

"_Beauty hides a lot of nastiness, you know. And we're only here on holiday! It's not like you could start anything –"_

_One of the others cut in airily, "She's just a girl, you know. And French at that. There are plenty of girls __–__"_

"Just a girl_? Are you out of your mind?" The tall, blonde boy looked incredulous, as though he were seeing his friends for the first time and didn't like their attitudes._

"_You don't know anything about her except that she's an actress!"_

_He shook his head and mused thoughtfully, "No, she looked sad. I could tell. She looked as though she wanted to escape."_

"_Oh God. He's reading people's emotions again. Why does he _do_ that?" The boy who said this had turned away and thrown his hands up in the air in sheer annoyance, and left the others to it._

_Marguerite had paused, eavesdropping out of curiosity. The boy named Tony caught sight of her at that moment and instantly fell silent, and she knew then that they had been talking about her. The taller boy glanced over and she saw his breath catch in his chest. She actually saw his chest contract and his eyes widen, because she was standing so near him and he hadn't been expecting her to be so close by. His eyes were a beautiful shade of sky blue, hopeful and sparkling, and her heart had started to pound furiously against her ribcage. He was very attractive, she'd thought, in a girlish, excited sort of way. His head was slightly cocked to the side, as though studying her – that by doing so he might memorize her and learn all about her._

_But how had he known she _was_ sad? She was always so worried that Armand was working himself to death. She was so worried about how they would make the next rent payment, about what was happening in Germany, about how to avoid the drunk men who always seemed to be around when she performed. But how could this young man have seen that in her eyes? She was so careful when she was on stage to smile brilliantly and wink at patrons and laugh and make certain they had a good time, because if she didn't, she wouldn't have a job. And God knew she needed the job... Armand couldn't make ends meet without her help._

_The manager grabbed her shoulder at that precise moment. "Zut alors, what are you doing? Get dressed for the next act, damn it!" he'd barked angrily, and Marguerite had jolted and hurried to change, apologizing to her boss as she went. But when the burly man bustled off to yell at another actor, she'd looked over her shoulder once more at the young, blonde man, and she'd given him a small, sincere smile. She just did see him raise his hand, as though stretching it out to try and stop her...she just did see his foot move forward, as though he might run after her...before his friends grabbed him by the shoulders to haul him out, and she'd moved behind the set changes towards her dressing room before she got fired._

She had never seen him again. But she'd daydreamed about him for months, it seemed. Other boys and men flirted with her, but none looked at her the way that one had. Perhaps he had remained in her subconscious all this time because he was the only man she had ever had a real, girlish crush on. It was easy to dream about someone when you could make up anything you wanted about them. In her mind, he was a wealthy, gentlemanly, kind young man who would lavish her with affection and love, and she would return it willingly. In slight desperation, she had looked for him over the next two weeks in her audience, but the stage lights always got in the way of seeing people properly, and he never came backstage again. She knew, deep down, that he must have returned home, because his friends had said they were only on holiday, and a little piece of her heart broke away. But it didn't stop her from dreaming that he might come back and take her away from the hardness of her life _–_ that mysterious young man who had seen into her soul as no one else had ever done before or since.

Marguerite opened her eyes, remembering her current reality with a wave of dread, and she forcibly pushed the memory back into the recesses of her mind. It was useless to dwell on something that had happened fifteen years prior. More importantly, who had come for her now?

To her horror, the hulking outline of a man crouched beside her, lit from behind by a lantern. She realized seconds too late exactly who it was, but before she could shout in alarm and draw away, Giselbert snapped, "_Lapin_!"

Half-surprised he hadn't said it in German, she jerked into a sitting position and shoved him away with a strength she didn't quite realize she possessed. Caught off guard, he toppled and fell back onto his palms, and she snarled, "Do you _always_ have this infuriating habit of scaring people to death? And I still don't trust you, even _if_ you know the French word for _rabbit_! Why are you here?"

He picked himself up off of the dirt floor and sat back on his knees. "You really think I'm German?" He sounded irritated.

"What _am_ I supposed to think?" she demanded. Good God, but why the hell did _he_ have to come for her? Wasn't there _anyone else_ in this mysterious League that could have been sent instead of _him_? Waspishly, she added, "Besides, I thought you were supposed to die in an avalanche!"

"Oh, and you would have loved that, I'm sure." His anger seemed to match hers.

Scowling at him, she snapped, "Mores the pity. You might have everyone else believing you're innocent, or that you work for the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, but I still don't trust you."

His eyes flickered at her, an eerie shade of icy blue in the lantern light. "How do you know _I'm_ not the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

Marguerite didn't even hesitate to toss aside such a ludicrous idea. "Because you aren't English." With that, she stood up and brushed herself off. "And he certainly doesn't go around telling people who he is."

"I didn't realize you knew him so well!" was the sarcastic response.

She added sharply, "I also know he doesn't have a swastika tattooed on his wrist!" Despite her revulsion of this man, she grabbed his hand and held it up. The little symbol stood out weirdly in the lantern light – a black mark that made her recoil in revulsion. She had seen it before she had blacked out in Chauvelin's cabin, when Giselbert had been torturing her.

"How do you know that isn't a fake? That I drew it on with a pen?"

She hesitated at this, but after a couple of seconds, she realized he was only trying to argue with her just for the sake of doing so, and she snarled, "You _look_ Aryan!"

"A convenient trait, I assure you, but not all who look Aryan were German! I didn't believe you were actually stupid enough to believe something so asinine!" Giselbert stood up as well, but he was much too tall for the small underground room, and so had to hunch over like an old man. "And by the way, no one else is going to come for you. So if you want to get out of here, I suggest you follow me. If you want to stay here for the rest of your life like a rabbit in a burrow, then don't. I could really care less what you wish to do."

She clenched her fists in indignation. "And where in God's name are we going, if I do decide to follow you?"

He tossed her a heavy overcoat and looped a scarf around her neck; she grabbed it before he could entertain the idea of strangling her. He merely rolled his eyes and said coldly, "To the other end of this tunnel."

"Oh, that's immensely reassuring and helpful," she grumbled cynically.

He ignored her and picked up the lantern. Unwillingly, Marguerite followed him out of the small room and into the tunnel, noting that he moved towards the sharp, ninety-degree angle she had seen earlier.

A sudden thought occurred to her, and she asked, "Why couldn't one of those other men come for me? Denys or Tony, I think their names were?"

"Because they were assigned to do something else, I expect," was the evasive, acidic reply.

They rounded the corner and she realized the tunnel sloped downwards and became taller and narrower. Her foot slipped and she grasped at the rough wall to keep her balance. Giselbert did not turn to check that she was still standing or even ask if she needed assistance, the great lout. She thought again about her memory from when she was sixteen; how kind the young blonde man had seemed, how he had seen into her soul even from a distance. She wondered if he and his friends had survived the war. Had he been drafted? He would have been the appropriate age. What a sad thought. She hoped he hadn't been killed.

Without thinking, she mused quietly, mostly to herself, "I knew of a Tony, once."

"Really? Oh, and I'm certain there's only one in the entire world! Tony is such an unusual name, after all."

It took everything she had not to hit him. Instead, she gritted her teeth, inhaled sharply, and said, "If you don't like me anymore than I like you, why on _earth_ did you not persuade this elusive Scarlet Pimpernel to send someone else to get me out of here?"

Giselbert half turned and scowled at her. "Because it is our job to obey his orders. It is _not_ our job to complain. We swore our lives to him, and will do what he asks, regardless of how much we dislike the task."

She scowled back at him, but after a short, tense stalemate, he turned forward again, and they resumed their trudging walk. A minute or so went by before she whispered, again to herself, "...what would have happened if they had come back? If I had spoken to them?"

"Oh, damn it! What are you talking about now?" Giselbert demanded in exasperation.

Annoyed that she had said more of her inner thoughts aloud, she reluctantly explained, if only at an attempt of conversation: "Years ago, when I worked in a theatre in Paris, a young man named Tony came backstage with his friends one night. I didn't get a chance to speak to them. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had. It doesn't matter, though. It was just a memory that came to me before you woke me."

Her guide said nothing to this, and they fell back into an uneasy, tense silence.

Marguerite sighed heavily after another fifteen minutes of following him. It would obviously do no good to talk to him, and she was getting sentimental, which was almost just as bad. She would have to forget her girlish memories if she wanted to escape from this hell alive. She couldn't change anything in the past, after all. She forced herself to push her emotions down and lock them away, and she continued trudging after Giselbert – around corners and twists and turns, until finally, after an hour or so, the path turned upwards, widened into a small squared shape, and came to an abrupt halt. She glanced up into the ceiling of the tunnel and saw a trapdoor by the light of the lantern.

Giselbert stopped, but to her surprise, he merely sat down on the floor and stretched his long legs out. He was tall, and his dirty, worn boots nearly touched the opposite wall.

Marguerite hesitated, but he didn't seem to desire to give her an indication of what they were doing. So after a few seconds, she gingerly sat down on the hard packed earth as well, but opposite of him so she wouldn't have to sit beside him, and crossed her arms.

Trying to keep the bite out of her voice as much as possible, she asked, "Now what?"

"_Now_," he shrugged, "we wait for the signal."

"Oh? A signal? What, will they drop a _rabbit_ through the trapdoor?"

At her sarcasm, Giselbert regarded her mutinously, his eyes narrowed in dislike. "No. But it shouldn't be long, _mademoiselle_."

There was something intensely infuriating about the way he said the word, and Marguerite bristled, digging her fingernails into her arms. It reminded her of the way Blakeney said French words: _all wrong_. The thought of Blakeney on top of Giselbert was nearly too much for her to contemplate while dealing with the situation at hand; she almost lashed out again, desperate to push Giselbert's buttons and piss him off, but prudence won the battle in her head and she swallowed her retort. He might well kill her if she pushed him too far. She certainly wouldn't put it past him.

Instead, she asked coldly, "Just how did you come to work for Chauvelin, Herr Giselbert?"

"I don't work for Chauvelin and I never did. My orders," he snarled through gritted teeth, as though he wished to hit her as much as she wished to hit him, "were to earn Chauvelin's trust so that he would hire me! In doing so, I would be near enough to save you when it became necessary!"

"So the Scarlet Pimpernel _expected_ me to get captured? And this mysterious person, whom I have _never_ met, decided that it was better to allow me to be captured, rather than forewarn me so that I could flee France?"

She dearly hoped he would hear the furious edge in her voice. She was getting angrier by the second. How _dare_ this unknown Scarlet Pimpernel play with her life like this!

But Giselbert surprised her.

"And just where would you go that Chauvelin and his army of spies would not find you?" His smile was grim and twisted; it made her shudder. "He has ex-Nazis completely at his disposal, all over the world. The Scarlet Pimpernel knows that."

To her dismay, she could not deny that Giselbert had made an excellent point. _Where indeed?_ she thought despairingly. Where on earth could she go that Chauvelin would not find her? The same small voice in her mind answered flatly: _Nowhere_.

She swallowed, and whispered, "Does the Scarlet Pimpernel, whomever he may be, intend to kill Chauvelin? That would certainly solve problems for both myself and him."

"Devil if I know." Giselbert looked as though he could care less. "He doesn't reveal nearly half of his plans to any of us."

Andrew had said the same thing, she recalled, back in the cabin with Chauvelin. It made sense, she supposed. A mastermind never let slip what aces he had up his sleeve. Perhaps by allowing her to get captured, then rescued, he would push Chauvelin too far and Chauvelin would end up digging his own grave, so to speak. Perhaps he would kill himself in the process; maybe in madness, he would slip and hang himself. Though Marguerite had no idea how, and there was so much she _didn't_ know, that it was impossible to speculate.

Giselbert shifted and readjusted his position, and she found her eyes drawn to his face, despite the fact that she had been trying hard not to look directly at him during their time together. He was certainly ugly. It was his nose and his chin, she thought with annoyance. Neither made him attractive. His chin was too wide and his nose too long; it made his appearance foreboding and disgusting. His hair was dirty and his eyes cold and unfeeling.

She wished, minutes later, that she had a watch so she could pass the time by staring at it, instead. She didn't want him to catch her looking at him, so she took to staring at the earthen walls in the light of the lantern. But this was incredibly boring, too. She wondered how long they would have to remain here, hidden in this tunnel, before something happened.

She just started running her lines in her head for _The Invisible Savior_, for lack of anything better to do, when quite unexpectedly, she heard footsteps approaching above her. Her heart leapt to her throat. There were five odd taps on the trapdoor from the other side – a code of sorts – and Giselbert stood up heavily. Marguerite followed his lead nervously, watching as he reached up to the door.

But before his knuckles struck the wood, he met her eyes and said baldly, "Tony – the one you remember? He was arguing with his friend that night at the theatre. His friend was head over heels for you, but Tony thought you were too young. And the stage manager wouldn't let you meet them because you had to change for the next act, didn't you?"

Marguerite's brain jammed; Giselbert's knuckles struck the door once and it opened, and before she could grab his coat collar and snatch him down to her level to demand how the hell he knew of her memory, he had grasped her firmly about the waist and lifted her bodily up into the hole, as though she weighed no more than a kitten.

Someone else's arms grasped her and pulled her the rest of way out, and when her feet touched the floor she looked to see who had helped her. A man with dark brown hair grinned down at her, all perfectly at ease and friendly. He looked somewhat boyish in his easy smile, but he had to be in his thirties.

"Marguerite St. Just, I presume?" He kissed her fingertips in a gentlemanly gesture. "It is an honor. My name is Lord Anthony Dewhurst, and I am a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. My friends call me –"

"_Tony_," she gasped.

Surely not – surely it wasn't the same man! She was clearly overwrought from trying to escape from Chauvelin! What the devil was going on?

Lord Dewhurst looked rather surprised, but Marguerite whirled around, half-expecting Giselbert to have vanished into thin air. However, to her surprise, he was hoisting himself up into the room as gracefully as a gymnast, and he sat down on the edge of the trapdoor.

"How the hell did you know that?" Marguerite snarled at him, ignoring the man named Tony or a moment. "That memory?"

"Lucky guess," he said darkly, his eyes narrowing at her.

"It was not a lucky guess, damn it! How do you know about that night?"

Instead of answering her, Giselbert looked pointedly at Tony from his perch on the edge of the trapdoor. "You'd best to as the chief says, and get her out of here," he said. "Chauvelin won't go any easy on anyone, even Fleurette, and I need to get back to her to make sure she's safe."

"The entrance to that tunnel is well concealed, though," Tony answered, his brow knitting slightly in thought. "Chauvelin shouldn't find it. He didn't during the war, leastways."

Giselbert answered grimly, "He's completely unbalanced. He would have let me rape Mademoiselle St. Just if I had really been a Nazi."

"You very nearly did!" Marguerite shoved him, nearly knocking him back into the tunnel.

He caught himself and grabbed her arm, snatching her down to his level. She almost lost her balance, and had to grab his shoulder to keep from falling into the hole. He snarled, "I did _not_ nearly rape you. All I did was unbutton a few buttons, and even that was _unwillingly_!"

Well. _That_ was new. No one had _ever_ hinted that they didn't find her attractive, or that they weren't interested in her. It rather stung, even though she hated him so much.

She yanked her hand out of his grasp, straightened up, and said loftily, "Well, I hope you got a good look, because you certainly won't ever see any of it ever again."

She turned around before he could respond, but in doing so, it was to find the man named Tony pinching the bridge of his nose, as though he had a terrible headache.

"Both of you," Tony said sharply, though his eyes were closed in irritation, "Can't you argue about this later? When we're all out of danger?"

"No, we can't." Marguerite suddenly felt like a snake. Ignoring Tony again, she swirled on the balls of her feet to face Giselbert once more. "I want to know how you know about that memory, you infuriating German spy!"

Giselbert's face reddened and he got to his feet at lightening speed, hauling himself out of the trapdoor and slamming it shut. He looked quite ready to start arguing with her. Her eyes flashed – she was going to enjoy this; she just knew it. She hadn't had a good verbal fight in a long time, and she was more than ready to put him in his place.

"_What memory_?" Tony asked, cutting Giselbert off before he could start yelling at Marguerite.

"When I was sixteen," she answered hotly, "I was working at a theatre in Paris. Several men came backstage and one of them wanted to meet me, but his friend – a young man named _Tony_ – wouldn't let him. I haven't ever told anyone that memory, not even my brother! But _this man_," she pointed at the monster next to her, "somehow knows about it! Which means he must have been there that night! He must have been one of the men in the group, or he wouldn't have known what happened! I find it odd that he would remember it after all these years, on top of everything else!"

Tony's eyes had widened during her tirade, and now he looked as though he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Marguerite demanded, "So then? Were _you_ the Tony there that night?"

"_What_? Me? Uh..." He was completely unnerved; he looked over her head at Giselbert, and Marguerite wondered how much angrier she would get before this entire adventure was over. However, before she could scream at both of them, Tony quickly went on, "There are a lot of Tonys in the world, Madame. I can't possibly be the only one who has ever visited a theatre in Paris!"

She scowled towards Giselbert and asked, "Who are you, anyways?"

"Dietrich Giselbert, a member of the League of the –"

"Then you _are_ German?"

He didn't answer that; he merely glared at her.

"If you _aren't_ German, then just what _is_ your name and nationality?"

To her horror, he composed himself, his expression becoming blank. And in perfect British – grating, irritating, proper British! – he said maddeningly, "I speak several languages fluently, Madame, so you'll just have to guess."

A wave of fury washed over her at his insolence. She actually raised her hand to strike him, and to make matters infinitely worse, he started _laughing_. It was a full, loud laugh that obliterated her thoughts completely. Instinctively, she struck him. Her hand made a fast, sharp contact with his cheek and nose, and the resounding slap shut him up; in fact, for a split second he looked positively shocked that she had actually hit him.

Tony made some sort of strangled yelp and moved forward, but to Marguerite's horror, the crack of her hand connecting with his face was followed by two additional sounds.

Two dull thumps.

Her eyes jerked to the source, which were now lying on the floor.

It looked to be a... a _nose_? And... well, she couldn't make out the second object, not at all. Her eyes flashed back to Giselbert, but the trouble was, he was no longer Giselbert.

He was...

_Oh God._

For a few seconds, she merely stared at him, her jaw slack, unable to speak.

Slowly, his right hand moved up and touched his real nose, rubbing it a bit. He sighed, his hand slid to his real chin, and he said thoughtfully, "I suppose next time I should use more paste, eh? I forgot that kind doesn't hold well in the cold. Should have remembered that from the winter of '43."

A small, furious noise escaped her throat; she couldn't articulate absolutely anything. In fact, to be perfectly honest, what she really wanted to do was to hit him again.

Behind her, Tony muttered, "_I_ remembered from the winter of '43, for God's sake. Why the hell didn't you? Blasted cold and all hell breaking loose, and John nearly executed by a German firing squad because that stupid paste didn't hold properly! Why the devil do you even have any of it left?"

"Do be quiet a minute, Tony. You can reminisce about the winter of '43 later, after I've thought of a new plan."

Marguerite opened her mouth to start yelling in fury, but Tony touched her shoulder before she could begin. He shook his head quickly at her, his expression pleading for her to remain calm – an emotion she did not _remotely_ feel. She bit her tongue, trying to decide which question out of the hundreds in her head she wanted to demand first, but she certainly didn't control her temper.

However, it was best she _did_ hold her tongue, for not more than a few seconds passed before she heard another soft muffled thump, and the three of them instantly looked down at the trapdoor, upon which Blakeney was standing. The door shifted slightly, as though someone were trying to push it upwards and enter the room. Blakeney looked positively alarmed; he motioned quickly to Tony, who had already left Marguerite's side and darted into a second room. There was another muffled thump from the trapdoor. Blakeney did not move, for he was keeping it shut merely by standing on top of it, and Marguerite heard a voice from within the tunnel. It was a quiet voice, and she couldn't make out what it said, but it couldn't possibly be good.

Within seconds, Tony had returned with two other men. The three of them lifted a dresser, which had been against one of the walls, and moved it over to the trapdoor, more quietly than Marguerite thought possible. They shifted it on top of the door, and as soon as it was in place, Blakeney stepped away and grabbed Marguerite by the shoulder, guiding her towards another door that led outside.

Marguerite was about to ask what the _hell_ was going on, and why the Scarlet Pimpernel had ever inducted _Blakeney_ into the League, when someone fired a gun. Blakeney clapped his hand over her mouth before she could scream, and continued pushing her out of the room. Another two gunshots followed; when she glanced behind her, she realized whoever was in the tunnel was shooting upwards, hoping to shatter the wood.

Then she was outside in the cold with Blakeney and Tony on either side of her, and the two other gentlemen behind them, and Blakeney was leading her to a car. It was still snowing, but not nearly as it had been a few hours earlier, and the snow wasn't as deep here as it had been outside the cabin where Chauvelin had held her prisoner with Andrew.

Blakeney threw the passenger door open, pushed her inside, and slammed it shut, even as several more gunshots were heard. Tony had moved to open the driver's door, but Blakeney reached him before he could get inside, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out.

"No, I'll take her! Change of plans! Get back to Fleurette – make certain she's all right! Take the long way!"

"But –"

"_Now_!"

Tony did not hesitate a second time, but vanished into the woods to Marguerite's left.

The other two men were at Blakeney's side as he got into the car and turned the key.

"Denys, Galveston, get to the checkpoint eight and wait for my orders. Take the Chemin de Vieux Bois; Chauvelin should follow me instead of you, but watch out for his guards – he had two, both German!"

The other two men were already hurrying into the woods as well, following Tony's tracks. The one named Denys was brushing away the footsteps as he went, using an old broom. Marguerite briefly wondered where on earth he had gotten it when she felt the car jerk into motion and she grabbed the seat to keep from being slung into the window.

She looked at her driver, and finally she managed to stammer, "But Chauvelin will see our tracks and know exactly where to follow us!"

"That's the idea," Blakeney answered, giving her a roguish grin.

A sudden thought occurred to her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. "It's you, isn't it?"

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out," he admitted grudgingly. "But yes."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes:**

**Note #1: **My deepest apologies for the delay in this chapter. I quit my job in May. I slaved at that job for over a decade, ever since I graduated college, and while the pay and benefits were great, the stress was _unbelievable_. Never mind what I did; suffice to say it was a corporate job in which management and customers were never satisfied, nor did management had no clue what was going on "in the trenches". I had reached the point where I was having anxiety attacks and I absolutely dreaded going to work. I loathed answering the phone, and I hated dealing with coworkers who didn't understand me because I'm not a conformist. Despite that, I managed to leave the company on good terms, and I took three months off over the summer.

I know what you're thinking: "Why didn't you write?!" Well, being in a corporate cubicle ant farm for 10 years sucks a lot of creativity from your brain. During those three months I took off, I helped my mom and spent time with my kitties, I worked in my vegetable garden and went to the beach, and my brain purged 10 years of deadness. I felt as though I'd been let out of prison - that's how bad my job had been. In August, I returned to school to work on my third BA (History). My plans are to work on my Masters next, hopefully in Museum Studies. I may not find a job in that field, but anything is better than where I was. Writing is slowly coming back to me, but with a full load of upper level history classes this semester, I'm also having to write 7 papers, 10-20 pages each. Plus I have to read a lot of books. So thanks for bearing with me! I know I have multiple chapter stories in the works, and I hope I can finish some of them.

**Note #2: **I had a few people ask me if Percy was angry in the last chapter. Actually, he was not angry; he was merely acting. In fact, in my head, he was quite excited to be having a verbal spat of epic proportions with Marguerite. It got his blood going, you could say. But since the chapter was from Marguerite's perspective, I couldn't easily portray his excitement, and Marguerite saw his anger. This chapter is from Percy's perspective however, which was fun to write because I haven't written from his point of view recently.

**Note #3:** Warning: Character Death and Emotional Angst

* * *

><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

* * *

><p>Nothing was going according to plan, and he hated that. He hadn't had a plan go awry since February of 1945, and it was demmed unpleasant. Initially, when Chauvelin and his men had tried to get through the trapdoor, his stomach had twisted in fear at the thought of Fleurette. He knew Tony would get to her as soon as possible, but he'd never wanted her to see her father ever again, regardless if she could stand up to the man. To make matters worse, he was more disturbed that the tunnel had been discovered. True, the war was over...but it had been a useful secret just the same. He trusted Fleurette and her husband, though – neither had told Chauvelin where the entrance was. Chauvelin must have found the tunnel without their help. He'd likely combed the cabin from top to bottom in fury at having Marguerite slip through his fingers and into Blakeney's hands.<p>

Blakeney shifted gears by instinct, his mind flying as fast as the car he was driving, trying to decide what to do next. Should he proceed with the original plan (except that he was now Marguerite's guide instead of Tony)? Or should he change plans completely?

No... he didn't have the necessary time to change plans; the blizzard would make it next to impossible to get new orders to his men, who were scattered throughout the French Alps. And then there was Chauvelin, mercilessly following him. Percy had to admit; he detested the idea of killing anyone, but perhaps this was one of those few times to make an exception. His mouth turned down as he thought about it. He was a better shot than Chauvelin, that much was certain, but madmen were incredibly dangerous, and there was no telling what Chauvelin would do next.

The car fishtailed slightly as he took a curve a bit too fast, and Marguerite instinctively gripped the dash and snapped out in obvious alarm: "Slow down, damn it all, before you kill us both!"

His mouth twitched back into a small smile. God, but she did have a way of igniting his blood when she argued with him. "I dare not slow down," he said, as cheerfully as he could muster, "or we'll both be _captured_. Does _mademoiselle_ not trust my driving?"

"At the moment, I'm not sure whom to trust on anything! I've half a mind to hit you again!"

She sounded infuriated. He couldn't quite blame her; he'd hidden a lot of information from her. She had every right to hate him, and that thought bothered him more than he wished to admit. In fact, she had more right to hate him than even _she_ knew - and that thought bothered him _a lot_.

Instead, he replied, "I'd prefer you didn't; would make driving terribly difficult."

There was a long silence – he drove at least another half kilometer before she muttered angrily and abruptly, "How long have you been the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

He sighed. This wasn't how he'd wanted to tell her the story. He had wanted to tell her in a private location, where the weather was more pleasant and they weren't bloody well freezing or being pursued by a murderer, but he was out of options where that was concerned. He might as well tell her now, while they were driving. It would take his mind off Chauvelin, and he needed a distraction from the gnawing worry.

"Since the thirties, when Hitler was coming to power. It was easy back then – sneaking Jews out of Germany and into Belgium or England. But then Hitler started invading other countries, and before I knew it, the entire thing was blown completely out of proportion. I couldn't stop though." His gut wrenched slightly at the thought of how many had died. He had known back then that he couldn't save everyone, but it was still difficult. It made him wonder if he had a God-complex...picking and choosing the ones to save. But he knew he had to save those he could, else all would die in genocide.

He went on quietly, "What had they done to deserve death? Nothing. So we kept at it, myself and nineteen others. We lost two in number during the war to deflection, then gained a few more who were refugees and wanted to help. The war just seemed to drag on and on... it's a wonder, really, that we didn't lose more. And then, when the war ended, we didn't stop. I suppose we've been doing it so long now, that it was impossible to hang it up and go back to England. So we've been helping some of the families and children relocate and start new lives. There are still Nazi officials on the loose, after all. And still many who haven't found their relatives, if their relatives are alive. In most cases, they aren't, but we still try to help. And, a few that are still being sought. Like yourself."

"It would be better," she whispered, "to let Chauvelin have me. That would free you to save someone else, more deserving. I am a murderer."

"How do you know you killed anyone?"

"That's what everyone keeps telling me, and I'm sick of hearing it," she snarled, her fingers curling into fists.

They were coming to a tunnel. He said nothing in response until they were well within; then he stopped the car in the semi-darkness and looked at her. Quietly, he said, "You sought to save them, not kill them. There is a difference, Margot, between trying to save someone and the plan falling apart because you did not know Chauvelin was working for Germany. Nor did you deliberately tell Chauvelin because you knew he would arrest them and turn them over to the authorities. I know you were unaware of his true allegiance and you acted out of love for another human being, rather than hatred."

Instead of answering him, she said shortly, "Why are we stopped?"

He opened the door, walked briskly around the car, and opened hers. She stared at him incredulously, and he smiled and said, "We have to divert Chauvelin. Come on."

She frowned, but got out of the car. The coat he had given her in the underground tunnel was too big for her, but she pulled it tightly around her and looked about the dark tunnel. When he started walking towards the side of the underpass, she followed him, though she did look back at the still-running car a couple of times in confusion.

Percy ignored her and knocked four times on a service door. It opened immediately and Wallescourt stepped out, rubbing his gloved hands together. He took one look at Blakeney and Marguerite and his mouth fell open.

"Where the bloody hell is Tony?" he blurted.

"The plan changed a bit. Chauvelin found the tunnel in the cabin. Tony's on his way back to Fleurette. Chauvelin is likely pursuing us. Your part of the plan is unchanged, but I will be taking Marguerite St. Just from here."

Wallescourt looked horrified, but didn't argue. Instead, he hurried to the car, got in, and immediately continued driving.

Marguerite opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but Percy forestalled her by guiding her into the service door. He locked it behind them, and picked up the lantern Wallescourt had left on a peg.

"Don't worry about him. He's a trained mechanic. He raced cars professionally. He's going to crash it off the side of the mountain to fool Chauvelin. Don't worry. He'll survive. He always does."

"But that's insane!" She looking terrified at the very idea.

"He's done it at least five times before, if my memory serves correctly." Percy started edging down the tight service tunnel until he came to an opened manhole that led downward. Turning back to Marguerite (who looked still looked horrified), he said, "We can do this one of two ways. I can go down first and guide you, so you don't slip on the ladder... or you can go down first so I don't have the temptation of looking up your dress."

In the light of the lantern, her cheeks took a tinge of pink that had nothing to do with the cold. "I'll go first," she said icily.

Percy bowed politely and stepped out of the way, far too amused at her antics to chastise her for being silly. She swung herself down into the manhole and took the rungs one at a time; Percy began following her as soon as she was far enough down. He closed the manhole cover behind him and latched it, and when he reached the bottom he flashed the lantern down another tunnel and began to walk.

"All of these tunnels..." she muttered behind him. "How many of them do you _have_?"

"Too many to count. I have the maps back at my estate outside of London in case we need them, but we all have them memorized."

She said nothing to this, and to his consternation, they walked in silence for at least an hour. He daren't say anything to her, not knowing her mood or what would irritate her, but surely she had more questions? If he were in her place, God knows he would have hundreds of questions. Yet Marguerite remained silent, and worry gnawed at his stomach in a way it hadn't before.

Eventually they reached their destination, and Percy opened another manhole cover - this one much closer to their heads than the last, and not involving any ladder.

"Wait here a moment. Let me make certain it is safe," he whispered.

Her eyes flashed at him in annoyance, but he ignored the way the simple glare made his heart beat faster, and instead hoisted himself up out of the hole, praying there were none of Chauvelin's men waiting on the outside.

To his relief, he saw a white, snowy landscape beyond the grove of little fir trees where the tunnel entrance was located, and snugly perched on the side of the mountain, a small but comfortable chalet. Percy signed and lowered himself back in the hole.

"It appears safe. I'm going to lift you out, and you are to walk quickly to the house you'll see on the side of mountain to your left. Knock four times on the door, wait exactly ten seconds, and knock once more. A gentleman will open it and let you in. Tell him I will be there momentarily."

Marguerite looked as though she were struggling to decide whether she wished to follow his instructions or not. After a moment, she nodded curtly, and he wrapped his hands around her waist to help her out of the tunnel.

She was slender and easy to lift; his muscles tensed as he shifted her upward. Try as he might to keep a separation between their bodies, it was still hard. Even with coats, he imagined he could feel the warmth of her body, and the thought made him sweat slightly beneath his collar. He felt her squirm as she grasped the icy edge of the cover and pull herself into the light dusting of snow (the firs kept most of the snow off the ground), and Percy reluctantly let go and climbed out after her.

She was already hurrying towards the house as he replaced the cover and began disguising it with snow and branches, and she was inside before he had a chance to start covering footprints effectively.

Several minutes later, satisfied with his job, he ducked into the house, now curious to see how Marguerite was dealing with the occupant.

She was sitting at a table by the fire, but she was also white as a sheet. The owner of the cottage, however, turned and gave Percy a jovial smile, hurried over, and kissed both his cheeks without invitation.

"It is good to see you, Herr Blakeney," he said cheerfully. "And where is Lucifer?"

"Pursuing us, as usual."

"You would do best to shoot him and be done with it," the man responded firmly, before turning back to Marguerite. "I was just telling your young refugee that I was also a refugee once!"

Percy gave him a thin smile. Yes, he knew Yosef Breitenbach had been a refugee – he had been the one to help the man escape the Nazis, after all. However, how Marguerite would react to being in the presence of a German Jew, he had no idea.

To his surprise, she said politely, "Monsieur Breitenbach has been most kind while you were outside. I am very glad," she added, speaking directly to Yosef, "that you survived the war. But I fear I am putting your life in a great deal of danger. Surely Chauvelin would kill you if he met you."

"It is no matter," Yosef replied carelessly. "It is not the first time I have been face to face with devils and demons. I have worked for Herr Blakeney since 1943, and I do what I can to help."

"But helping places you in a great deal of danger!"

"Life is, by general rule, dangerous. And I would rather help than be a coward."

"I am worth your life, monsieur." Her voice was bitter.

Percy decided it was high time to interrupt. "Herr Breitenbach has a special skill," he said, moving to the fire to warm his hands briefly. "You'll notice his appearance, I expect?"

Breitenbach grinned, despite Marguerite's frown. "It helps that my hair is of a light color, and my eyes are blue. My mother was German, you see. I utilize her maiden name when I wish to avoid conflict – Schapp. I speak perfect German, and Blakeney forged me German papers. Many is the time those got me out of a scrape!"

"That is beside the point," she answered curtly.

Percy interrupted again. "Fascinating as your stories are, we do have a most pressing situation, Herr Breitenbach."

"So I hear." He sounded unperturbed. "And not knowing where Chauvelin and his men are, it is best to hide you both quickly. I can take care of myself, remember."

"I remember," Percy said quietly. The man was quite skilled – yes, he had a golden tongue and could pretend to be anyone, from a Swiss mountain man to a French farmer to a German factory worker, depending on the situation. And had, many a time.

"In that case, it is right where it was before. I will stay down here in case they come up during the next few minutes. That way, they will not suspect the upstairs."

Percy nodded. He remembered that, too. "Margot, if you'll come with me."

Without waiting to see if she followed, he started up the stairs. Behind him, she thanked Yosef for his kindness and started up the stairs after him. He waited at the landing, smiled slightly at the glittering spark in her eyes, and led her down the narrow hall to a small bedroom.

"The house is built into the side of the mountain," he explained, for the sake of simply talking, because he couldn't stand the silence between them any longer. He bent down against the rear wall and ran his fingers along the thick baseboard. "It was built specifically for this purpose." After a couple of seconds, he found the hidden latch and pulled the board out. The space was tight – barely 10 inches in height – and about four feet in length. "Time is of the essence. Ladies first."

She was staring at the space as though he had lost his mind. "But how am I supposed to crawl through? It is too small. And if it is too small for me, it is surely too small for _you_."

"You have to lie on your back and shimmy through. One leg at a time, then your torso."

She inhaled sharply, glared at him, but as gracefully as possible, sat on the floor, tucked her skirt in around her, and lay down on her back to shift into the hole. As soon as she was out of sight, he did the same, the wall scraping his chest as it always did if he entered this hidden room. Once he was inside, he pulled the baseboard back into place from behind, and locked it into place.

The hidden room was pitch black. Percy himself had designed it, and thus knew where everything was at – his fingers skated up the wall until he found a torch on a shelf, and flipped it on. He flashed it around, finding the bed where it had always been, a night table wedged against it, a small cabinet of food, and through a tight doorway at the far end of the room, a tiny bathroom. The plumbing had been completely hidden, which was the hardest part of the design, but he was well pleased with it. There was no sense, after all, in having a hidden room for refugees if it didn't have a facility to relief and clean oneself.

"I know it's tight," he admitted. "But it will have to do until I hear from my men."

Marguerite looked frightened. "What is this room?" she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I built it specifically to hide refugees from the Nazis. Many came and went from here. It has never been discovered." Despite his words, he felt his gut twist slightly. The tunnel at Fleurette's had never been discovered either. And there was no outlet from this room into the side of the mountain, no tunnel with which to escape if Chauvelin should find them here.

"And now _I_ am a refugee," she murmured, sinking onto the bed. A few tears slipped from her eyes and Percy's hands clenched at his side.

"Because you did something good," he reminded her again, placing the torch on the night table and moving to sit beside her, though rather stiffly.

"Because I made a mistake," she snapped, edging away from him.

"Margot, listen to me." He took her hands, whether she wanted him to or not. She flinched, but didn't pull away. Encouraged, he went on, "You did not make a mistake. You tried to save those four families. You testified against a terrible man at trial, at the risk of your own life and career, and you have lived in fear for years. There are not many who could do what you have done. And, if you'll forgive your servant, I do not think it fair that you should have to continue living in fear!"

"It would be better if you let him kill me, and save someone else!"

He frowned. "You may as well stop saying that, because I can't let him kill you."

To his surprise, this seemed to greatly irritate her. "So I've heard," she said coldly, and she snatched her hands from his abruptly, and rose to look about the gloom.

"Heard what?" He was genuinely confused.

She didn't answer.

After several long, tense moments, he decided not to press the question, but instead he rose, stretched, and said, "Well, I expect you're filthy and would like a hot bath. There is a change of clothes in the washroom. You have my word that I will remain in here."

She looked shocked at the very idea of taking a bath in such close proximity to him, but after a few seconds she slowly shrugged out of the oversized coat he'd given her in the tunnel, and he took it from her and hung it on a nearby hook. Reluctantly, she frowned at him until he smiled sheepishly and picked up a heavy set of headphones on a shelf, snapped them on his ears, and began fiddling with the radio dials. He may as well try to pick up signals – Tony or Denys might attempt contact him, though he highly doubted it. They knew better than to advertise locations over the radio.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth tighten into a thin line before she ducked beneath the curtain that separated the hidden bedroom from the adjacent bathroom.

He didn't pay attention to the time, nor did he dwell on what was taking place beyond the curtain. The buzz of static through the headphones blocked any sound, and he was grateful. He knew damned well he would be lost if he started envisioning Marguerite in the nude, water sliding down her lithe body, or her dressing in a pair of pajamas far too big for her.

When she re-emerged, he shut the idle radio off and removed the headphones. She looked slightly mollified that he hadn't listened in on her bath. Giving her a short bow, he said, "Please try to get some sleep. I need to rinse the dirt off as well, if you'll forgive me."

In the dim light of the torch, she flushed, but clutched the too-big pajama top and padded over to the bed. He slipped behind the curtain. The dim, bare lightbulb was on overhead, casting eerie shadows about the tiny bathroom. She had folded her dress and stockings neatly and left them on top of her shoes. He smiled at her obvious neatness before he stripped out of his own clothes, and gratefully sank into the still-hot bath. She had not been nearly as filthy as he was, and the water was still relatively clean. He would never tell his men, but he wasn't overly fond of being so dirty, and never had been, even if it was simply part of life in the League. He washed the grim off of his face and out of his hair, having to rinse it several times before the water ran clear. By the time he got out of the bath, the water was brown. He grimaced, pulled the plug to drain the bath, and quickly dressed in a second pair of pajamas. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped back into the tiny bedroom.

Marguerite was sitting up in bed with the quilts drawn over her legs and lap. Having found a brush, she was slowly pulling it through her deep auburn hair.

He tried not to look at her. There was something oddly beautiful and comforting about her sitting up like that, her knees drawn towards her chest beneath the patchwork squares, the large flannel pajamas obscuring her curves, her eyes haunted and staring off into space while she pulled the brush methodically through her hair. Ignoring her as best he could (which was nearly impossible), he opened a small cabinet and pulled out a couple of blankets, and stretched out awkwardly on the narrow floor. He was exhausted to the core, and he desperately needed sleep.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was clipped.

"Going to sleep, madam, and I suggest you do as well."

"You cannot sleep on a drafty, cold floor."

"It wouldn't be the first time. There is but one bed, and a gentleman would never ask a lady to sleep on the floor."

"But a lady can ask a gentleman," (it sounded as though her teeth were slightly gritted), "to sleep in the bed. Don't be foolish, Blakeney. You need a good night's sleep and you won't get it on the floor."

That was tempting. The devilish part of his brain was encouraging him too, and he was too tired to argue with himself.

"Don't misunderstand me," she went on stiffly, seeing his hesitation. "If you attempt do to anything else, I'll very likely kill you. I'm still absolutely furious with you."

His lips twitched. She probably would kill him. But regardless, as though he wanted to court danger, he stood up and placed the blankets on the bed. Marguerite scooted over, her blue eyes narrowed at him. He slid beneath the quilt, almost sighing at the delicious warmth her body had left behind. His very bones ached from the previous few hours; to tell the truth, he didn't have the strength to do anything to Marguerite that would warrant his impending death, no matter how intriguing it was to think about.

After he turned the torch out and the room was plunged into immediate darkness, he felt Marguerite shift and lay down beside him. She was careful not to touch any part of him.

"Why are you furious with me, exactly?" he murmured.

"Go to sleep, Blakeney," she snapped.

And so lay there in the dark, feeling her beside him, and after five minutes, he realized sleep was going to be nearly impossible. His body seemed to hum with electricity at her closeness; his muscles were tense and he couldn't possibly relax. Ruefully, he decided he would tell Tony and Andy that he'd slept on the floor; they'd never believe him otherwise.

And then suddenly, to his surprise, Marguerite whispered tersely, "Were you the boy who came backstage that night?"

Percy shifted uneasily. Ah yes, questions. She had them, she had just bitten her tongue throughout their journey from the underpass to the chalet. He would almost rather her go to sleep than ask _that_ question, though. He assumed she was still mad at him for dragging her over the countryside, for not forewarning her about Chauvelin, and for handling her life without her permission...not because of something that had happened nearly twenty years prior, at a vaudeville theatre, when he was a hot-blooded young man who had seen a pretty, overworked girl that didn't enjoy leering drunks trying to cop a feel, and he'd wanted to protect her and make her fall in love with him. Pay off her debts and take her away to a better life. A silly fantasy that had been, he thought bitterly.

His silence seemed to be an admission though, because he felt her sit up beside him.

"And Lord Dewhurst? Was he the same Tony?"

He closed his eyes, but the darkness didn't change – it was pitch black whether his eyes were open or shut. He faltered, "To be fair, you mustn't blame Tony. He was trying to be a good friend that night."

"He was interfering," she said frostily, to his great surprise.

"As was your boss, if I recall correctly."

"I had a job to do. Of course he had to interfere!"

"Yes, you had a job to do. Otherwise Armand wouldn't have been able to pay the –" He broke off, but the damage had been done, and he knew it immediately because the quilts shifted.

That, and her tone was horribly dangerous.

"_How do you know my brother needed my help to pay the rent_?"

God, he really did have way of getting himself into scrapes. Why had he even opened his mouth?

He thought of turning over, to put his back to her, but that was cowardice. So he said heavily, "He told me once."

"You knew my brother?" Her voice sounded odd now.

"A long time ago."

"But how did you know him? He never once mentioned you!"

"He was a member of the French Resistance. And he was forbidden to contact you after he joined, so you wouldn't have known."

After a long pause, she whispered, "Oh God. What happened to him?"

No, this was definitely _not_ where he wanted this conversation to go. Reluctantly, he muttered, "Get some sleep, Margot."

"I will _not_ go to sleep until you tell me!" she begged. "Where is he?"

He sighed. _Best get it over with_, he thought ruefully. "He disobeyed orders in an attempt to save someone, and was captured."

"Was he sent to a camp? Where is he now?"

When he didn't answer, she grabbed his arm and shook him.

"_Please_, Percy! What happened to him? I've waited so long to find out!"

The first time she'd called him by his first name, and it was in desperation to know what had happened to her brother. His heart broke slightly because he didn't want to tell her what had happened to Armand. He had never told anyone, and he didn't _want_ to tell anyone – not even the members of the League. It was his own personal sin, he supposed, and he'd never forgiven himself. Like hers was to send four families to Drancy, his had been to fail to save Armand.

Sadly, he whispered, "I couldn't get there in time, Margot. I tried. He had sworn himself to the League of his own accord, and when I found out he went against my orders, I raced after him. But the Germans rarely sent members of the French Resistance to the camps. They didn't know he had joined the League, which was probably best – otherwise they would have tortured him for information. Instead, they found information on his person proving he was part of the Resistance, and he was..." He took a deep breath; he could feel Marguerite beside him, tense and still. He clenched his fists beneath the quilt and went on. "He was executed. I failed to save him, and I have never forgiven myself."

For a long moment, she was still, her fingers gripping his arm, wrinkling the fabric of his sleeve. Then, without warning, she burst into quiet tears and fell across his chest, gripping him tightly. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, though he was the last person on earth to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I had asked him to remain behind because I knew the Nazis were in the area at the time. I could pass for a Nazi with ease because of my appearance, but Armand's hair and eyes were dark, and I knew he would be questioned if seen crossing checkpoints. But he was in love with a girl and he was determined to get her out himself. They both were killed. I'm sorry."

It was a long time before her tears slowed; his shirt was soaked by the time she pushed up slightly. Quietly, she stammered, "Does your League know this?"

He shook his head, and then remembered she couldn't see him. So he answered thickly, "I didn't tell them, but they knew he had been killed."

"Why didn't you tell me? I've waited for information for _so long_..."

"You hated me!" He laughed without humor. "You would never have believed me!"

She slowly released him and sat up. "I'm... sorry," she faltered.

"So am I. When I lost Armand, I knew I had lost you, too."

To his surprise, she grasped his shoulder. "They say the Scarlet Pimpernel is in love with me." Her voice was slightly hard again. "But is it me, or the actress on the screen and in photographs?"

"_You_. I saw you before your film career started, not after. I knew how hard you were struggling to help Armand, and I thought you were brightest, prettiest woman I'd ever seen."

"Then why did you never tell me you loved me during the war? I would have believed you then."

"It was too dangerous to cross lines. I was trying to keep the League alive, and trying to save Jews and Poles and anyone else I could. I haven't had a good night's sleep since 1935, I'm certain. Many was the time I wanted to go to you and tell you about Armand, but you were in Switzerland and I knew you were safe. It was too risky to try and reach you. I know you have every reason to hate me, but I still love you. I have for a long time."

"I'm a horrible person, Percy. How could you love someone who did what I did?"

He was growing tired of her repeating this information, damn it all. So he snapped, "Margot, listen to me. You tried to save four families and didn't know Chauvelin was a double agent. On the other hand," he sat up and ran his hands through his hair, still damp from his bath, "I was unable to save Armand and haven't had the courage to tell you before now, so I _am_ the horrible person. Do stop telling me _you_ are; it's not true."

"Some pair we make," she said dryly. Then, sadly, she added, "Both of us think we are horrible people. But I do know this – Armand was always one to make his own choices. I just didn't realize... I had hoped, for so long, that he was still out there. But as the years went by after the war, I started to think that there must be no way he survived, because he would have come back to me."

"He had a picture of you in his pocket. You were about sixteen in it... the same year I saw you on stage. He used to tell me I should find you and tell you, but I couldn't do it. He carried that photograph everywhere. It was on him when he was killed."

"I remember when I sat for that photograph," she murmured. "We didn't really have the money for it, but Armand insisted. Oh, God, Percy. I'm so exhausted."

To his surprise, she curled up between his arm and chest, resting her head on his shoulder. She didn't wait for him to speak, but went on, "I don't feel like I have slept well since 1935, either. Tell me, why do you play such a fool? You obviously aren't, when it comes to tactics and strategy. Not to stay alive for over ten years. But you do it so well... I never once thought the Pimpernel could be you."

"If anyone had guessed my identity, I would have been killed. Playing a fool was easier than death."

"Is it?" She sounded doubtful.

"Get some sleep, Marguerite. It's been a long day."

She slowly released him and slid back to her side of the bed, and he felt momentarily cold at her absence. It was going to be a long night, he thought sadly.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Invisible Savior**

* * *

><p>As Marguerite lay there in the dark, she first thought it would be impossible to sleep. There were too many thoughts reeling in her mind. Learning of Armand's death... Blakeney's secret identity as the Pimpernel... Chauvelin's determination to kill her... Tony's interference at the theatre all those years ago... Blakeney's idiocy the past few years... the picture Armand had carried with him until he was shot... why no one had notified her of Armand's death sooner... Fleurette's safety... where Andrew was... Blakeney lying so close to her... this tiny room where refugees had hidden... <em>Blakeney<em>...

_Dieu_, but his body simply radiated heat, and the bed was so warm and toasty that she could barely remember being cold in that wretched cabin, or as she crawled through tunnels.

Nor was it just the delicious heat. She could feel the male strength from his body, seeping across the sheets, and a part of her wanted to curl up against him and feel safe. A part of her wanted to forget everything: Chauvelin, the Nazis, Armand... even Blakeney himself, damn it all.

How long had it been since she had felt safe? Not since she had lived in the convent as a child. She had always felt protected behind those huge, iron-studded doors and the massive blocks of masonry. It had been a simple life, but after she moved back in with Armand, and the more she learned of the world, the more Marguerite half-wished she could return behind those walls and live in peace and tranquility.

And despite having men fawn over her constantly, she tended to shy away from them. Before the war, she hadn't had time. Her work had simply been too demanding. During the war, she had been too afraid. Now, after the war, she didn't trust anyone. It wasn't that she despised love, or didn't _want_ to fall in love. It was just that she knew the cost. Many professed love without knowing what the word meant, without actually meaning it. The word _love_ was tossed about flippantly. It was just another thing to say, like _I'm hungry_ or _Isn't the weather nice? _The only person she had ever truly loved was Armand, and she didn't even have that hope anymore.

When her brother had failed to return after the war, Marguerite had still hoped, day after day, that he would. But by 1948, the realist within her had accepted that he was likely dead. She had grieved upon the realization, cried, and tried to hope otherwise. But deep down, she had known he must be dead; else he would have returned before this. Hearing Blakeney tell her what had happened hurt, but at least the confession provided finality. The truth felt like a prick in her heart, but not as devastating as it would have been in 1945. She was still frustrated with him for not telling her sooner, but she found she couldn't even hold that against him – not really. He had been right: crossing borders was insanely dangerous during the war, and even if he had showed up on her doorstep, she would have never made the connection between Blakeney and the handsome, young blonde who had tried to see her at the theatre. She may not have believed him if he had come to her; she may have thought it to be a trick, especially considering Chauvelin's duplicity. No, she couldn't really blame Blakeney for not telling her before now.

But oh, she had plenty else to blame him for. She thought back to when she'd known him as an idiot. The night she'd met him in Cannes came to mind immediately. How she had hated him then! Not because he was unattractive, but because he was so infuriating, so stupid, and so ridiculous. In all actuality, he was _very_ attractive in the physical sense: he was tall, with close-cut blond hair that a slight wave to it. It would be curly if he let it grow out, she supposed. He was strong, muscular, slender, and well built. No, she had hated his personality, not his appearance. When he played an idiot, he was absolutely grating.

And that bothered her, too – the fact that he could change personalities so easily. It made her wary of him, for he was obviously a man who could play any role. She had watched him play German soldier to such perfection that she believed it. She had truly believed it! What other roles had he played that she was unfamiliar with? Had he played a role around her without her knowing in the past? Her skin prickled. If he was such a good actor, he could have been around her at any point without her knowledge. She was a good actor herself, but she wasn't _that_ good. She had to ask him about that – if he had been around her without her knowledge at any point before. Because that would really rile her up, and a part of her _wanted_ to argue with him.

But the next thing she knew, she was dreaming – she was standing on a quiet, rear balcony in Paris, with ivy trailing up the walls. The balcony overlooked a tiny, secluded garden...and the twinkling lights of the city sparkled just above the trees. Behind her, a man's arms circled her waist; his lips touched her neck, and she sighed with happiness. _What a feeling!_ her dream-self thought. To be _happy_! She turned in his arms; she saw the lights of Paris reflecting in his eyes – blue eyes. She kissed him gently, and then pulled him back into the dark room. He whispered her name hoarsely: _Margot_, not _Marguerite_, and she sighed again and rested against him, relishing the strength that soaked into her body from his as his hands moved up her torso, down her arms, over her back...

She awoke gradually, trying to cling to the dream, because it was so peaceful and pleasant that she didn't want to let it slip away just yet.

And then suddenly, she became fully awake.

Startled, she discovered she was pressed against Blakeney, with her head nestled against his chest. She had rolled over during the night, towards him, and he had moved at some point as well. He was now turned towards her and he had his arm around her waist. She was pressed snugly against him! At first, she felt horrified; then she realized her hand was cupping his shoulder in sleep, while her other hand was clutching his thin shirt. She could feel the hardness of his chest beneath her palm. His warmth was overwhelming. And she was as much to blame as he, because her dreams had betrayed her and pushed her towards him out of desperation.

There was no way to move without waking him, but she noticed that it wasn't as dark as it had been when she'd gone to sleep. The dim light in the bathroom was on again. Perhaps he had woken in the night and turned it on. She listened intently, but heard nothing, so she looked up at his face instead. It was gray in the faint light. In sleep, she could see a couple of small lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. He was tired, that much was obvious, but she could also see the teenager who had visited the theatre in the chisel of his chin, the strong cheekbones, and the straight nose. He had filled out since then, but that was no wonder. He had been young then, as had she. They were both older now, both worn with the weight of the world. Both had done something they were ashamed of.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. It was firm and long, and without thinking, she released his shoulder and gently touched his lower lip with her finger, tracing it slightly. She had kissed many men, but she had never felt anything before. Of course, there was always the body's response to pleasure, but she had heard of women who spoke fondly of _fireworks or bells or a special feeling_ when they kissed the right man. She had written such nonsense and fairytales off long ago.

Without warning, Blakeney's eyes fluttered open. Marguerite froze. She was pressed against him, touching his mouth with her fingertips, and he was awake. There was little way to get out of such an awkward situation.

"_Margot_?"

He whispered her name, sleep-laden and heavy and low, and the word vibrated against the pads of her fingers and made her shiver despite the heat.

"Forgive me," she whispered in response. "I did not mean to wake you. Go back to sleep. You need the rest."

But instead of heeding her words, he rolled over onto his back, releasing her in the process, and lifted his arm to look at his wristwatch. Then he groaned, apparently at the time, and his arm dropped across his eyes and forehead, as though wishing to block the dim light.

"Forgive _me_," he muttered. "I didn't realize I rolled towards you last night."

"I also rolled over," she reminded him. She was still lying on her side, facing him; she had not sat up or moved back to her side of the bed, even though he had put a few inches of distance between them.

"Yes, but..." He paused, as though choosing his words, and then said deliberately, "I'm not a very strong man, Margot, and –"

She interrupted him. "Why do you call me that?"

"Marguerite," he amended.

"I don't mind if you call me Margot." She went on thoughtfully, "But why do you think you are weak? You are quite likely the strongest man I have ever met. Don't misunderstand – simply a statement of honesty."

His lips curved and he dropped his arm back to his side. "There is a difference between physical strength and mental strength."

"Ah, so you _are_ a stupid fool?" She smiled slightly when his head turned enough so he could see her.

He chuckled, fortunately recognizing the jest in her tone. "Where _you_ are concerned, yes."

"_I_ make you a fool?" She felt her eyebrows lift at that idea.

"Margot, listen to me. I'm afraid if you touch me, I'll… lose control. Of myself," he clarified.

She didn't move. She was much less inclined to argue and fight with him this particular moment, unlike the night before. Instead, she reached across a gap that seemed miles wide, but was in reality only a few inches, and cupped his chin to make him look towards her.

He jerked to a sitting position in record time, deliberately looking in the opposite direction. "I should go take a shower," he said quickly.

"You took one a few hours ago. I don't think you've gotten dirty between now and then."

"Stop it, Margot." His tone was pleading. "Don't make me explain –"

"I am a grown woman, Percy. I can guess what you meant by needing a shower. Lay back down. I know you won't do anything. Besides, you said yesterday we could not go anywhere until you heard from your men. I won't touch you if you order me not to."

He hesitated. "It isn't that I wouldn't _like_ you to touch me..."

"Ah. You are afraid I would seduce you because you're the only man in the room? Now that I've been around you for longer than a few minutes, it is easy to see that you are a man who wants only one woman in life. Tell me, do you believe I prefer multiple men instead of one?"

"Much as I loathe to admit it, I don't really know what you prefer." His brow furrowed.

"Lay back down, Percy. We have hours to talk, and we obviously need to."

Slowly, he did as she asked, but she could tell he was tense, and he kept one knee up under the quilts so she wouldn't notice if he were aroused or not. The thought that he was so embarrassed about the situation was rather endearing. Most men would have pounced on her by this point, instead of keeping their distance.

So she said calmly, "I prefer one man, who is faithful, and has no interested in using the word _love_ freely. I do not prefer a film actor, because God knows I'm sick of them. I'm rather sick of acting myself, except that it makes money, and I have no one else, so I must support myself. Are we on the same page so far?"

"I believe so, yes." He twitched slightly as he stared at the dark ceiling.

"Now, I do have one question which I am most curious about. Would you mind telling me why you wrote that ridiculous movie script? And why you are forcing me, of all people, to act in it?"

"Are you complaining because you don't think it will be a hit?" He looked genuinely confused.

"Oh, I'm sure it will be a hit," she said dryly. "But I still need to know why you wrote such an idiocy of a script."

"Is that all? Andrew wanted to meet Suzanne."

Marguerite stared at him incredulously, and felt her ire rising. "_That_ was the reason? You went through such a roundabout series of tactics just for _that_?"

"I often do things in a roundabout way," he admitted. "And it wasn't just Andy wanting to meet Suzanne. I wanted to meet you again. I wanted the chance I missed before the war. I am a selfish person, I'm afraid."

She huffed at the very idea. "A man who has saved hundreds is hardly selfish, Percy."

"I don't want you to love me just because of that." He sounded annoyed now, too. "I don't want to be loved because people believe I'm a hero, or some such rubbish. Very much like _you_ wish people would love you for whom you are off screen."

"Then why don't you be _Percy_ around me, instead of _acting_!" She whacked his arm lightly, growing more and more irritated with him. Could he at least have a conversation with her in which he didn't drive her up the wall?

His eyes flared slightly and he looked directly at her. "You want me to act like myself?"

"_Yes_, damn it!"

"Fine." He changed, almost instantly, and twisted to lie on his side, facing her. Propping his head up with his elbow, he said baldly, "What do you want to know about me?"

"Oh, for goodness sake! Anything you wish to tell me, damn it!"

"Very well." The very briskness of his voice was so different from the lazy, infuriating drawl he normally used when he was at posh parties. It belied how rapid his thoughts were moving. Was this really who he was?

Without waiting for her to say anything else, he went on, "I hate being dirty. It's an occupational hazard of being the Scarlet Pimpernel, but I'd rather be clean. And my men always complain that I josh around too much, that I act too idiotic, but I do it deliberately. I don't want people to see how much I feel inside." He suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"What do you mean?"

"My mother, before she died, used to tell me that I felt the grief of the world. That I saw suffering all around me and that I absorbed it into my heart... that I hurt for the downtrodden and would do anything to help them. She told me once it would kill me unless I found someone to share the burden."

"And do you share that burden with the League?"

"No." He smiled sadly. "Mother was right – I refuse to share it with anyone. I would do almost anything to save anyone in the war. Eventually, I believe my heart will probably just burst from seeing the pain of others. My biggest weakness is that I feel too much."

"That isn't a weakness, Percy," she whispered, reaching out and gently touching his cheek.

He closed his eyes, his jaw tightened, but he didn't push her away. Instead, he changed topics, and murmured, "And quite honestly, I hate it when you wear those low-cut designer gowns – not that you don't look smashing, but I prefer you in those worn out, too big flannel pajamas."

"_Dieu_. These don't show a girl's figure. They're shapeless."

"No, but you look comfortable. Relaxed. You are just like me, Margot. You put up a false front to trick people, to make everyone around you believe you are perfectly fine inside. In fact, it is the furthest thing from the truth."

She became quite still. He was right, of course. It bothered her that he was right, but they were very similar, she and Percy.

He continued, "I'd rather know _you_, and not Marguerite the Actress. I want to know the young woman who desperately helped her brother pay the rent, even if it meant working in a sleazy vaudeville theatre. I want to know the woman who wears a plain gray dress to dinner in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the French Alps. The woman who willingly followed me through a series of tunnels to escape Chauvelin."

A well of emotion seemed to rise up in her; unbidden, she felt a couple of tears slide down her face. Percy's eyes snapped back open and she sat up to hide her tears, but he sat up as well and wrapped his arms around her, soothing her mused, curly hair back.

"Damn. I am sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I'm sorry, too. I misjudged you, and that is unforgiveable."

"Nothing is unforgivable. We both misjudged the other, I expect. Besides, I enjoyed fighting with you." He released her and sat back on his palms. "I enjoyed the way you weren't afraid to stand up to me, to yell back at me. You did that in Cannes, too. I could argue with you all night, really."

Feeling suddenly and distinctly angry, she turned and glared at him. "Telling a woman you enjoy fighting with her is hardly the way to win her heart!"

"You told me to be myself. And I love it that those top two buttons came undone."

Horrified, she glanced down – to her shock, neither button was undone at all! He was merely joking, and when she scowled at him, his lips twitched with amusement.

"Honestly! You _did_ tell me I would never see such a sight again, remember?" he reminded her.

Marguerite had half a mind to unbutton the pajama top just to watch him break out in a sweat for such insolence. Fiddling with the top button, she mused, "And what would you do if I retracted that statement?"

His smile slid off instantly. "Don't," he warned her.

"Or what?" She unfastened the top button.

"Margot, please. I pride myself on being a gentleman, but even a gentleman has his limits."

She unfastened the second, noting the way his eyes widened and how he looked momentarily panicked. "And would you like to know about Margot, and not the screen actress?" she asked curiously.

He nodded once, though it appeared to be difficult for him. He was staring at the hollow of her throat.

"I hate being dirty, too. I prefer a quite cottage in the country, or an apartment on a lazy street in Paris, instead of the limelight of the stage and all those awful cameras. I hate being _lonely_. I hate the thought of growing old, without anyone in my life. I miss my brother, I'm terrified of Chauvelin, and I wish you had come back to the theatre twenty years ago, _without_ your friends, and found me again."

"I did."

The admission startled her, and she paused.

He murmured quietly, "The problem was, I couldn't get backstage again. Your boss recognized me and ordered me out – he didn't want to lose you to some foppish rich boy. I decided to wait a few days, then go back in a disguise. But when I went back, you were gone. One of the other actors told me you had been hired for a film production two nights earlier. After that, I refused to go to your movies, because I didn't want to lose the memory I had of you from that night. Silly, isn't it?"

Well, that was an interesting bit of information. "Hmm. Very well, then. I will accept that answer. And there is one more thing you should know about me, Percy: I prefer a man who is a gentleman, yes... but I also like him to lose control every once in a while. A man who is _so_ in love with me, that sometimes, when he sees me, he can't keep his hands to himself. Is that too much to ask?"

He looked back at her face and shifted. "No," he whispered. "I want that, too. I mean, a woman who is so in love with me that she can't keep her hands to herself. I've never had that."

"I'm still angry with you," she reminded him. "For dragging me all over the country, for toying with my life, for never telling me about yourself or Armand, and for being such an idiot when that isn't your real personality at all."

Percy suddenly grinned. "I haven't let you die yet, have I?"

"That is beside the point." She sat up fully and unbuttoned a third button.

He jolted; clearly shocked she would dare to keep up such a game. "Margot, do stop. This isn't the time or place...!"

"Then when _is_ the time and place?" she teased.

"Not in a hidden room, where Chauvelin could burst in at any moment!" He sat up, clearly debating whether or not to stop her.

"No?" She edged over to sit beside him, facing him. He couldn't slide away from her, or he'd fall off the bed. Without waiting for an invitation, she reached out and touched his chest with her fingertips, and tugged the thin fabric of his shirtsleeves, letting her knuckles brush against his muscle through the cotton.

And without any warning, he immediately cupped her face with both hands and kissed her. She was startled for a brief second, and at first it was tentative and soft, but _God_, there was fire beneath his lips. She fisted her hand in his shirt and pulled him closer. She could feel the restraint in his body, taut and still... in the gentle way his hands held her jaw line but at the same time, the way his fingers trembled as though he wished he could rip her clothes off and bruise her mouth with kisses.

She opened her lips and shifted to crawl in his lap, placing one knee on either side of his hips. She slid up his body until she cupped his neck and tilted his face towards hers, and her tongue traced his lips until he opened them. His hands slid down from her face to her arms, gently but deliberately preventing her from actually straddling his lap, but when his tongue met hers, it felt as though her stomach exploded into a million butterflies. He tasted like heat, burning her mouth and brain to oblivion, and she wanted him to stop holding himself back and let his emotions take over.

The only problem was, it ended as abruptly as it had began. She distantly heard a _click_, but before she could register what was happening, Percy had dumped her back on her side of the bed and grabbed a pistol from the nightstand. He put all six foot two of himself in front of her as the baseboard to the outer room moved.

The bright light of day suddenly lit up the narrow entrance to the hidden room as the baseboard was pulled back, and she caught sight of a pair of heavy boots.

Then, a definite, but bored British voice said, "Do get up, Perce. It's nearly 2:00 in the blasted afternoon."

Percy responded dangerously. "You'd best have something demmed good to report, Philip!"

"Perhaps," was the maddening answer. "While the rest of us have been risking our arses out here, you've been shagging the most beautiful woman in Europe, so you'll forgive us if we're not in the best of moods with you. Get out of bed and I might tell you more."

"Yosef, are you out there?" Percy barked.

Marguerite heard Yosef chuckle out the word "yes", but Percy didn't wait for more. Instead, he snapped, "If I shoot Philip, are you going to report me to the authorities?"

"You can't shoot me, Perce," the man named Philip said, rather exasperatedly. "I work for MI6. Now get out here."

"I can shoot you if I wish, and for your information, I _haven't_ been shagging the most beautiful woman in Europe." Percy slapped the gun back onto the night table and got out of bed. "I've been sleeping, damn it, and it felt good to actually sleep for a change." He began fishing in a drawer for an over-shirt.

"I'm sure Marguerite St. Just can confirm or deny the accusation," came the wicked reply.

Marguerite felt devilish, but mostly for Percy's sake. It would hurt any man's ego to admit she hadn't actually had sex with him, so she said loftily, "A lady never tells. She lets other men guess."

Percy nearly lost his balance as he slammed the dresser drawer, and she rather thought that was small consolation for what he'd put her through the past seventy-two hours.

Five minutes later, they had both changed into normal clothes – Percy into slacks, though he had only thrown a flannel button-down shirt over his shirtsleeves, and not bothered to button it up at all; while Marguerite used the small bathroom to put on a clean dress and stockings, and comb her hair out properly. Of course, she still had to lie on the floor and shimmy through the baseboard, but once she was halfway through, Percy helped her to her feet as though she weighed nothing.

Her first glance at the annoying Brit who had interrupted them, showed a tall, dark-haired man with a sarcastic smile. "Mademoiselle St. Just," he said – though not nearly as polite as she would have liked.

"And where is Chauvelin?" she asked curtly.

"That's for me to tell the Chief."

"You can tell _both_ of us." Percy frowned.

"It's not pleasant news for a lady to hear."

"Is that what you are worried about?" Marguerite nearly snorted. "After being dragged through tunnels and rabbit holes, and mock tortured – by you, I might add," she threw in, glaring at Percy, "I think I can handle unpleasant news. Is he right outside this house?"

The man named Philip gave her a thin smile. "Actually, yes."

Her first reaction was to panic, but she noticed Percy had not moved, nor had his facial expression changed. Instead, he said quietly, "You had _other_ orders, didn't you?"

Philip's joking mood vanished. In the wink of an eye, his smile slid off and he looked a bit haggard. "I know what you're thinking, Perce. And I don't blame you if you're angry about it. But you know I can't tell you all of my orders. I will say this: he was becoming a bit of a liability for my superiors, who didn't believe in his alleged 'innocence' any more than you did. I received my official orders from them two days ago. I don't believe Chauvelin found the entrance to the second tunnel, the one from the underpass, but he _did_ find this cottage. He was approaching the front door when a mysteriously stray bullet hit him in the head. God only knows where it came from..."

Percy interrupted dryly, "_Everybody_ knows where it came from, you mean! It came from five hundred yards back and you fired it!"

Philip didn't deny this accusation. "Well, it saves you the trouble of killing him yourself, doesn't it? Those two German guards were with him – they didn't have time to react before I put a bullet in their heads, too. Don't worry. I'll take care of the bodies. Part of my orders. Still, I expect you'll want to see them for yourself, as confirmation?"

Percy nodded to show he understood, but Marguerite couldn't help but feel completely confused and lost. After so much running away, it was slated to end like this? Abruptly and in such a manner? This man had shot Chauvelin and ended the entire problem in a matter of seconds! Why hadn't Percy done it sooner?

"So that's it, then?" she asked. It was hard not to keep a note of anger out of her voice. "After everything that's happened, it ends like this?"

"No." Percy frowned. "That is not _it_. You wait here with Yosef. I'll be back momentarily. And no, you may not come with me."

He was out of the bedroom before she could argue, and she gritted her teeth as she heard his and Philip's heavy footsteps down the stairs.

"You may as well come down and have something to eat," Yosef said kindly. "Herr Blakeney will be a few minutes."

"You all seem to be taking this rather calmly! Why didn't MI6 have Chauvelin killed years ago?"

"I certainly can't fathom the way they work, but I expect there was a reason. Herr Glynde's allegiance is split between Herr Blakeney and MI6, and the League knows it well. But he has useful information. That was why Herr Blakeney recruited him. They were also boyhood friends, which helps Herr Blakeney's trust level."

"Why didn't Percy just kill Chauvelin himself? Save all of this trouble?"

Yosef stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned to look at her. Quietly, he said, "Herr Blakeney detests killing anyone. His men have often wondered about it, and he has done it when absolutely pressed, but it bothers him. I think it destroys a little bit of him inside, each time he was forced to do so. He will do nearly anything to avoid murder. Philip is different – it is his job to assassinate people and he has never had a problem carrying out such orders. However, Herr Blakeney has never ordered Philip to do such on his behalf. If Philip kills someone, it is because he was ordered to by MI6. And sometimes, like now, MI6's orders coincide with Herr Blakeney's wishes." He sighed, and started down the stairs again, "Yes, Herr Blakeney could have shot Chauvelin and solved the problem years ago. But to do so, he would have had to do much planning to avoid being caught, and accused of murder – Chauvelin walked free at his trial, remember? If MI6 ordered the assassination, there is no subsequent inquiry."

Marguerite fell silent. Yosef had a point, and she felt her anger ebbing away.

Downstairs, she could see the bright, snowy landscape and the huge Alps from the small, thick windows. Blakeney was nowhere in sight. Yosef he ladled a bowl porridge for her, and she finally sat down at the table in front of the fire. But she found she couldn't eat. Her stomach seemed in knots. It was hard to believe Chauvelin was dead after everything that had happened the past few days.

Yosef watched her for nearly a full minute before he said, "If you don't eat, you won't keep your strength up."

"What's the point?" She swirled her spoon through the thickness. "Chauvelin is dead. I shall return to France, finish filming that ridiculous script, and return to an empty apartment in Paris during the off time before my next movie."

"I doubt Herr Blakeney will allow that to happen. I expect he has other plans."

The door swung open before Marguerite could inquire what other plans Blakeney could have. She glanced up at the sharp stab of cold air to see Percy entering the room alone. He closed the door without a word, and moved to the fire to warm up. Yosef immediately stood and ladled another bowl of porridge.

"Well?" Marguerite asked.

Blakeney was quiet. He slowly sat down and picked up his spoon. Like her, however, he didn't eat. Then, finally, in a brisk and business-like voice, he said, "Yes, Chauvelin is dead. Philip will handle the bodies, per MI6's orders. I am sorry that I had to drag you all over the place, but Chauvelin would have killed you before Philip had the chance to carry out his orders, so really..."

"I understand." She sighed. "So then, it's back to France, as if nothing happened?"

"No."

"No?" Her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"We still have some unfinished business."

When she looked nonplussed, he grinned at her. "Don't worry, mademoiselle. It's not what you're thinking."

Marguerite's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"No. But you'll need your strength, because we will have to walk a bit to get to transportation."

She looked back down at her bowl of porridge and sighed again. "Very well. But I refuse to use any more tunnels."

Blakeney chuckled. "As you wish, madam. No more tunnels."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** I'm back at a point where I'm not certain where I'm going with this. I was going to stretch this chapter out a bit more, but it's been a while since I updated and I'm not sure where to take this story next. School is quite busy this semester (lots of reading), but the semester will end in May. Perhaps I'll get some writing done then. Haven't decided if I'm taking summer classes or not. Thoughts/reviews are always welcome!

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><p><strong>The Invisible Savior<strong>

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><p>They did not leave immediately following breakfast, as Marguerite had initially expected. Instead, Blakeney insisted on writing a few short letters to members of the League. He instructed Yosef to find her a decent coat and some Wellies before they set out, and then he sat down at the table with some scraps of paper and a pen.<p>

Thus she found herself in a back bedroom of the cabin, with Yosef rummaging in a closet, pulling out various women's coats for her to try on. The first three were far too big, but the fourth fit well enough. Wellies were even harder to find in her size; her feet were quite small, and eventually Yosef gave up and stuffed some old flannel rags into a pair that was only two sizes too big. Marguerite took her regular shoes off and slipped into the rubber boots, wriggling her toes against the cushy flannel and wondering if she would be able to walk in the confounded English footwear, or if she would trip spectacularly out in the snow.

Yosef packed her regular shoes into a small satchel, which also included a blanket and some extra food – then he gave her a scarf, woolen hat, and a pair of mittens.

"How far am I going to walk in this snow?" she asked, frowning as she inspected the worn hat.

"The train station is a couple of miles to the west. I expect that is where Herr Blakeney intends to go," Yosef said placidly.

When he finally led her back into the main room, Blakeney had completed his missives and was waiting patiently by the door, dressed in a long coat, gloves, and hat as well.

"I thought you were writing letters?" she demanded.

"I told madam they would not take long." Blakeney handed the few sealed envelopes to Yosef and asked him, "Can you see that these reach their destinations?"

"Of course," Yosef replied. "Without delay. I expect Herr Glynde is still around?"

"Yes, he should return within the hour. He can take those on to their recipients."

"Very good. Have a safe journey, Herr Blakeney."

Blakeney smiled and clasped hands with the man, before opening the door and ushering Marguerite out into the cold.

It was crisp outside, but the sun was shining. Blakeney took care to walk just in front of her, carving a deep track through the thick snow so she could walk more easily. She was grudgingly grateful for that – even with the flannel stuffed in the wellies, she found walking awkward and frustrating...as though she had grown an extra set of feet and didn't know what to do with them.

Blakeney remained silent for their journey, which took them across presumed meadows and down a forest lane where the snow wasn't as deep, then back into the open once more. Marguerite was just beginning to think she would run out of breath (and was thankful she didn't have to talk, else she wouldn't be able to breath at all!) when she saw a small building in the distance.

"Is that the station?" she called out, clutching her coat and scarf more tightly about her throat.

Blakeney glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, just another half a league or so. Do you need to rest?" His brow furrowed as he turned to face her.

Marguerite shook her head and tried to keep her teeth from chattering. She wanted to get to the building as soon as possible, and out of the cold. Standing around while Blakeney looked concerned would get them nowhere.

"I can carry you," he offered.

She frowned. "I can walk. Just hurry up – I'm nearly frozen!"

Without another word, he turned and kept plowing through the snow. By the time they reached the small train station, Marguerite couldn't help but stumble up the steps. She silently cursed the stupid boots as she tripped, but Blakeney caught her arm and kept her upright, and helped her through the door and out of the wind.

It was only slightly warmer within the station. A small wood-burning stove in one corner did little to provide heat, and they were the only travelers in the single room. The stationmaster glanced up as they entered, and Blakeney approached the counter. In perfect French, he asked for tickets to Basel, Switzerland.

She was momentarily speechless at the flawless French. She had heard him brutally mispronounce French words in the past! True, he had recently claimed that he could speak several languages fluently, and it unnerved her that he was right. There was still much about him that she didn't know, regardless of the short time they had spent discussing their real personalities within the tiny hidden room in the cabin, closeted away from Chauvelin.

As the stationmaster took Blakeney's money, Blakeney glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Êtes-vous bien?" He spoke again in French, and she diverted her eyes in shame.

"Oui." The word felt stuck in her throat. She didn't feel fine at all, but she certainly didn't want to tell him that.

The stationmaster handed Blakeney the tickets and asked them to please be seated, because the train was about fifteen minutes out. Then he stepped outside, onto the platform, leaving them alone.

Marguerite sat down on one of the hard benches, and to her slight discomfort, Blakeney sat beside her.

"You are not well," he said quietly. "What is the matter?"

"Stop reading me like a book." She knew she was pouting, probably petulantly, but she hardly cared. It was odd having someone guess her feelings so easily. After a moment of awkward silence, she muttered, "It's just the way you speak French, that is all."

"The way I speak French? That bothers you?" Blakeney looked thoroughly confused. "But –"

"It bothers me," she said pointedly, "because you speak it so well. Yet I've heard you speak it so incorrectly that it made my very ears bleed!"

"But that was merely an act, Margot."

"Yes, I know. And that's what bothers me the most." She finally looked up at him, but she immediately felt her stomach swoop slightly at the color of his eyes. She tried to refocus; she had other things to think about than possible romance. Scowling, she went on, "How many other acts have you put on around me? How do I know when you are acting and when you are not?"

"Margot, listen to me. I will _always_ be my true self when we are alone. I will never act before you, unless it is to deceive someone else. But I will never deceive you again. You have my word of honor as a gentleman."

"If only it were that simple."

"In time, I hope you see that it is that simple."

Marguerite wanted to believe him, but it was incredibly difficult. Instead, she asked, "What is in Basel?"

His eyes changed – they went from somber and solemn to twinkling, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Ah. You shall see. I promise. Do you want to change your shoes? These are far too big, I think."

"Yes, please."

And, quite impertinently, she lifted her right foot to see if he would actually take the wretched British footwear off for her, like a slave to do her bidding.

To her surprise, he moved to kneel in front of her. Aghast, Marguerite dropped her foot. "What are you doing?" she hissed. "I was in jest!"

But he already had her leg in his hands and was slipping the rubber monstrosity off. "Replacing your footwear, of course. I am, as always, your servant."

"Stop! I was joking!"

"Perhaps so, but I was not."

His hands were large, and white from cold, for he had removed his own mittens. He briskly rubbed her stockinged foot and ankle, warming her frigid skin, and Marguerite found herself torn between wanting to yank her foot out of his grasp and allowing him to continue. Eventually he stopped and opened the small travel pack that Yosef had given them, and extracted her normal, sensible shoe, which he slipped on her small foot. Then, to her horror, he repeated the actions to the other foot.

She had never had a man treat her thus – with such care, as though she were a china doll, or something precious to be cherished. It was strange; she couldn't decide if she liked it or not.

As he finished, she heard the train whistle, and she jumped violently. Blakeney stood up and gathered their things, just as the stationmaster stepped back inside and announced that the train was on time.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a private, first class compartment, which was much warmer and cozier than the tiny station, and the train was chugging steadily towards Basel.

It struck Marguerite that this was the first time they had been alone since Glynde had interrupted them only a few short hours earlier. The walk through the snow had not permitted any conversation or interaction, and even though they had been alone in the station, the stationmaster had been just outside the entire while. Now, with the curtains drawn over the windows and the delicious heat thawing her limbs, she wasn't certain whether to feel elated or reserved.

"I must look a mess," she remarked, casting about for conversation. "My hair needs washing."

"You look beautiful."

She pursed her lips and frowned at him, but he merely smiled at her.

"Will you not tell me why we are going to Basel?"

"No," he said lightly. "Not at present."

"That is most unfair. I should be shooting a film, you know. Fontebleu will wonder what has become of Andrew and myself!" The idea that she _should_ be in the middle of filming seemed strange. So much had happened in the past few days that she could barely make sense of it. She didn't even feel like herself.

"Not to worry – I've already covered that. Andy will give Fontebleu a false copy of the supposed directions the two of you received, and Fontebleu will likely go on the warpath trying to find out who gave you such misleading information. He'll rave for a few days, and then resume filming, I expect."

"You certainly have everything planned out, don't you?" She couldn't manage to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. It was rather disturbing how he could play such a master puppeteer.

"Not everything." His face fell.

Marguerite sighed. "I'm sorry, Percy. I wasn't blaming you. Not really. And certainly not for Armand."

"I wasn't thinking of Armand. But thank you."

"Oh?"

His face didn't relax, but remained perplexed and worried. "You will see."

* * *

><p>Marguerite wasn't certain what to expect in Basel. As they stepped off the platform, the town around seemed perfectly normal. Percy hired a cab, but even as she gazed out of the window, she didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He directed the driver to a neighborhood, or at least Marguerite supposed it was a neighborhood. But when they arrived, she had to admit her confusion.<p>

The neighborhood Percy had taken them was on the outskirts of town, and seemed to be quite self-contained. The road here was dirt, covered in slush, and as she exited the car she noticed a group of children having a snowball fight in a nearby yard. There were about six or seven of them, all running around, laughing and having a grand time. The snow here wasn't powdery at all, but icy, wet, and hard. The children didn't seem to mind; a smaller boy had just thrown a hard-packed ball at a taller boy with a gleeful shout. The ice made a resounding _thwack_ against the older boy's shoulder and Marguerite was certain it would bruise, but the boy didn't seem to care. Instead, he shouted something to the younger about how he was in for it now, as he bent and scooped up a handful of ice to throw in return.

The car had already pulled off, but none of the children seemed to notice, for they were too self-contained in the snowball fight. But then suddenly, the eldest boy noticed Percy, and with a loud cry, he shouted, "Monsieur Blakeney!"

The other children immediately looked up and cried out as well, and before Marguerite quite knew what was happening, they were all racing towards the gate to welcome their visitor. Percy smiled boyishly and gave them a shy wave, but as soon as he and Marguerite stepped through the wooden gate into the yard, chattering French children surrounded them.

This one wanted to show Percy her new mittens, that one wanted to tell him about her coat, the smallest boy wanted to show him a missing tooth, another about a toy he'd received for his birthday. Blakeney took them all in good-naturedly, ruffling the eldest's hair and asking, "Have you all been good? Have you been studying?"

"Oui, Monsieur Blakeney!" the oldest boy replied eagerly. "Colette won the spelling contest last week – tell him, Colette!"

Percy knelt down so that he was face-to-face with one of the girls, who peaked up at him with a small smile. He asked briskly, "Is that so, mon petite chou?"

The girl nodded solemnly, and in a tiny voice said, "I was the only one to spell all the words correctly! Teacher gave me a piece of candy."

"I'll bet you were smashing," he said warmly, pulling her close to give her a hug. "And how is Madam Muhr?"

The oldest boy spoke again – he seemed to be in charge. "She is doing quite well. Come in and see for yourself! She'll be glad to see you."

Another girl asked quickly, "You will be staying for dinner, won't you, Monsieur Blakeney?"

Instantly, all of the children began to beg Blakeney to stay for dinner, and he laughed and said, "Yes, I'll stay! Goodness, but you are all very persuasive. Before we go in, shall I introduce you to my guest?"

The children fell silent and all eyes snapped to Marguerite, who suddenly felt quite self-conscious.

Blakeney didn't seem bothered by this, and went on, "This is Margot. She is from Paris. Margot, this is Hagen," (he pointed to the oldest boy, and then down the line by age), Seraphina, Pascoe, Cesar, Gail, Colette, and Marie."

Marguerite briefly thought it odd that he didn't introduce her as Marguerite St. Just the actress, but she didn't have time to dwell on that.

The oldest boy, Hagen, must have been about eighteen or so. His face lit up at the mention of Paris, and said eagerly, "Paris? I am from Paris, also!"

"Oh yes?" Marguerite smiled at him, and he began to lead her towards the small cottage. The others followed, the girls practically hanging onto Percy's arms, and the smallest boy dancing between them.

"Oui. But I doubt I'll ever go back. I'm Jewish, you see. Well, we all are," he gestured to the other children. "But they made it to Switzerland before the Nazis reached France. I fled Paris after the occupation and hid in a small farm outside the city, but the Nazis found my family a few months later. At first I thought we were turned in, but Monsieur Blakeney put me straight after he saved me from the camps. He said someone was actually trying to save us, but the devil tricked her. I suppose the devil tricked many people back then. He wanted all of us to die, after all. But I survived. Most of my family didn't," he went on, opening the door for her. "But I did." Hagen was inside the cottage then, and he turned away from Marguerite to call out to the matron of the house. "Madam Muhr! Monsieur Blakeney and a guest are here to visit!"

An old, stout lady stepped into the main room, beaming. "Ah! Monsieur Blakeney! It is good to see you again! Do come in, you are most welcome as always!"

Marguerite felt as though she had frozen to the doorstep, and only when Blakeney gently pressed his hand into the small of her back did she manage to walk, wooden-backed, into the warm cottage of Jewish refugee children.


End file.
